Last Man Standing
by Cerulea
Summary: Picking up exactly where we left off at the end of Season 7, Cas and Dean are stranded together in Purgatory struggling both to save their lives and their friendship amidst constant peril. That is actually one of my better summaries. Good for me. M for violence, sex and generally dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

_This is set literally right after the season finale (which I loved, due to the abundance of Crazy Castiel). So, if you're not caught up, this won't make a single snickerdoodle of sense. _

_The cliff-hangers always kill me, so I had to keep it going in my own mind, lest I perish from pent-up creative energy. __Right now it's a one-shot, but I always say that don't I...? And it rarely stays that way. So we'll see if I've just cursed myself._

_Ignore any teensy-weensy mistakes - I just got off a late shift at work and have a sudden urge to post this, grammar be damned. Hope you guys like it!_

* * *

_There was laughing, awful laughing. More like a maniacal chuckle... and pulsing...and __Castiel just beyond, looking vindicated, looking true again. Then, bright white light. _

_Then just... black._

**Last Man Standing**

"_Wake up."_

Dean startled awake as if from a long, pervasive nightmare. In reality, the nightmare was life, and his brief unconsciousness was a blissfully oblivious minute of silence and nothing. He opened his eyes into darkness, met with foreboding silence, and for a split-second wondered if perhaps the voice which roused him, demanding and so deeply familiar, had only been a dream.

Despite the lifelong ache of exhaustion in Dean's bones building the desire to simply give up, to sink into the earth and let it swallow him up, instinct took over. He was too well trained for it not to. Dean clamored upright, the feeling of cool, stony earth under his knees and dry leaves under his hands registering slowly. He looked around the blackened forest, feeling the dust of its mossy bed on his palms, rubbing his fingers against them absently as his eyes darted in every direction.

He didn't know where he was.

There was a brief spike of panic, wherein Dean squinted through the dark, racing to force his brain to put the pieces of his memory back together. But everything came back in a Picasso-jumble, thanks to the sharpness of the realization of his frail mortality, thrust front and center.

Wherever he was, he was alone, he was mostly unarmed, and most terrifying, he couldn't see through the seemingly moonless night. Dean could feel his breath coming faster, his chest starting to tighten. He turned and turned -

Then he saw him. Castiel, standing directly before him, plain as day. The only thing that could be seen in a place apparently made of shadow and indiscernible blur.

Dean would say he'd never been so happy to see him, but he could remember several such instances just the same.

Relief struck hard and fast; a sighing _Thank God_ moment he wouldn't dare admit to out loud. Dean knew, the only thing worse than being in a dark, foreign, nightmare, is being there alone. And despite the sordid past, Dean was glad for Cas' presence in this unknown place.

Cas spoke to him, but the words came to Dean slowly, his mind still reeling from shockwaves the memory of which he was struggling to piece together.

Cas spoke again, and Dean spoke in return, but his mind was still a jumble and his own words came out before his brain connected to them. Until Cas connected dot A to dot B, and Dean shuddered to a halt with realization.

"Wait, we're in _Purgatory_?... W'how do we get out?"

"I'm afraid we're more likely to be torn to shreds," Cas deadpanned.

There was a rustle, just the slightest shift to the dried leaves to his left. Dean peered uselessly through the dark hoping to catch a glimpse of what threatened to eat him alive, or worse. And when he could find nothing, and turned back, he was alone.

Castiel was gone.

As quickly as relief had struck, terror gripped and twice as hard. Dean's heart leapt in fear, his eyes darted every direction, catching not the sight of his fallen friend, not the sight of blue, complex eyes, but finding instead sets of red, hungry, basely animal eyes.

Dean stilled, awareness heightened, and reached for his gun. He cursed under his breath when it wasn't there. He reached for his knife, pulling it out slowly and holding at the ready, knowing it wouldn't do much for him.

Three pairs of eyes - one at his twelve, another at his three, and another at his nine, leaving and obvious hole directly behind him. He couldn't help but feel as though they _wanted_ him to flee. And Dean, being the son of a military man, loathed to run unprepared into terrain he was unfamiliar with.

But he didn't see much choice.

He stilled a moment longer, and then he ran. Dean turned and darted through the forest as fast as his legs could carry him. And he did surprise himself with the momentum he managed, especially given that his body felt oddly heavy and square, as if his muscle were mere bulk instead of strength that would help him.

When his chest began to ache and his breath came out in a puff of white mist, despite the unnatural heat and oppressive mugginess to the air, he threw a glance behind him to find the eyes were gone. He stopped, looking back the way he came, finding it silent and motionless.

He dared to hope he had outrun them.

It was a short-lived hope.

A branch snapped behind him. He turned to find a pair the red eyes, swaying slightly, not five feet in front of him. He tightened his grip on the knife, and poised to attack - better one now, than three once the others caught up. He gathered his courage and took a breath, but before he could take the step he was halted, by the low rumble of a growl at his left.

The second creature hovered, not three feet from his left shoulder. He could feel its breath. It made a gutteral sound - something between a panther's roar and a feral dog's snapping growl. And Dean didn't know how he knew, but he did - this awful sound, was the monster talking to the third of them. And Dean could feel its presence behind him without having to look.

He was trapped. These things, they were hunters. And Dean got the distinct impression, as they rumbled around him fiendishly, that he was about as easy of prey as they got here. But that didn't mean he had to make it any easier.

Before they could attack, Dean whirled around, slashing blindly a the third monster, hearing its hissing whine and hoping it was a distraction enough for him to run.

He only got ten feet before a clawed limb slapped him off course like he was made of paper and stuffing, sending him sprawling against a tree. Dean landed face down in the forest floor, his body crying out for a moment to recover. He scrambled to turn over and got into a sitting position with his back against the tree, still clutching his knife.

The monsters growled and swayed before him, before moving close to one another. The red eyes, the only part he could clearly see, seemed to shudder, almost vibrate, as they got closer together.

Suddenly the eyes broke their formation, separating from their pairs and slithering around each other. Dean could do nothing but stare, horrified, at the sight he struggled to comprehend. The sound of growling intensified, and there was the sound of bones breaking and muscles tearing as the eyes came together, two sets of three, and began to rise high off the forest floor. The growling deepened, the breath of the monsters came out in a singular huff Dean could feel from ten feet away.

His stomach twisted - his three moderately small enemies had converged into one, massive, ruby-orb-eyed monster.

He scrambled up and ran while he could hear the thing still building itself. But his head-start didn't get him much leverage. He could hear the pounding of the monster's steps behind him, could feel his pulse in his forehead, knowing he was bleeding, still reeling from the last hit he took. His heart leapt into his throat as he saw before him, a wall. A sharp, jagged, impossibly high mountain wall. As he came upon it he slowed -

Climb or deviate?

He reached out to climb, but pulled his hand back with a curse, finding even the smoothest part of the cliff-face was like razorblades to his scaleless human skin.

He dared to look back, and a hole in the canopy of the forest's trees allowed a sliver of red light to shine on the monster.

It was something he'd never seen before, something the sight of, he couldn't understand - something whose insides were on the outside and seemingly made of steel and rotted wood. His mind was vexed, slowed by horrible fascination so that even when his body was itching to run, he couldn't.

The monster slowed when it came upon him - trapped, such east prey. It raised a solid, crooked limb and brought it screaming down toward him. Dean dove out of the way, not sparing a glance to the cliff-face that all but crumbled under the monster's strength. He ran. To the side, back into the forest. But the monster was too close to him now. He knew he couldn't lose it, but he had to try. As he ran, he could feel the thing at his back.

Claws ripped through Dean's shoulder - no, it was much easier than that - they _sliced_. Like he were made of butter, rather than solid muscle and bone. The blow brought him down hard, and the scream he let out echoed damply through the thick air. He could feel when the claws latched onto the earth floor, pinning him, trapping him like a rat to a dissection plate.

He struggled in vein, jerking to tear his shoulder loose, making no progress except to further his injury. The thing moved lazily toward him, pompous in its slowness, until it stood over him, leering, watching him wriggle like a worm on a hook.

Dean registered the feeling of his blood seeping into the forest bed beneath him, spreading warm and wet beneath his back. He gripped the monster's claw in his hands, attempting in desperation to pull them from his flesh and free himself. But the monster could not be moved. It towered over him, and let out a gut-twisting howl, opening its jaws, splaying the rapture-like claws on its other limb.

Dean clenched his jaw, knowing this was it. He wasn't going to wriggle or plead. He stared up at the thing, with hate in his eyes and _Fuck You_ on his lips.

Suddenly the thing screeched, like a kettle done for too long and at the same time like a choir of animals in indescribable anguish. The tips of his claws began to smolder and charr, floating away in ash as his eyes did the same. And the burns travelled seemingly magnetically toward each other until the beast was nothing but a sculpture of charr, and Dean cowered in its shadow, allowing for an inkling of hope before the thing crumbled before his eyes into a pile of ashen dust to reveal...

God's most complicated angel.

Dean could do nothing but stare up at Castiel. And Castiel stared easily back, expression blank. But his eyes betrayed the violent righteousness in his him, the instinct to defend and destroy, contained behind a carefully-honed mask.

Castiel seemed to feel that the moment went on too long, because his eyes flickered to the ground and away from Dean's. He crouched down over Dean, who was clutching his mangled shoulder, clenching his jaw to fight showing the pain, or the fact that his vision was beginning to haze.

"I thought maybe you took off on me..." Dean barely mustered.

A flash of something crossed Castiel's face - a kind of hurt, but laced with disappointment, more in himself than Dean. He covered it quickly.

"Come with me," he commanded, placing a palm on Dean's forehead.

Dean had the familiar sensation of tingling that comes when a limb falls asleep, but the pins and needles were over his entire body. He was almost used to the feeling of Cas mojo'ing all over Hell and creation at this point, but with the blood-loss and overall trauma of the day, the experience was newly disorienting. He opened his eyes to see they were inside a small cave. Castiel was leaning heavily against the cave's wall, wincing, looking dizzy.

"Cas?" Dean gritted out, his concern obvious. He didn't have time or strength to pretend he didn't care.

"I'm very far from Heaven's power," Castiel attempted to state blandly.

"What're you saying - you're cut off?" Dean asked, a definite note of panic in his voice.

"It's difficult to say," Castiel responded evenly. But Dean could see his jaw was clenched tightly.

Cas helped Dean onto the earthen floor of the cave, easing the man's weight off of his shoulders and helping him to fold his arm at his side with a wince and a bit-back grunt. As Dean moved minutely to situate himself as comfortably as he could manage, Castiel stepped back to look at him fully. Taking in the sight of the merely mortal man, barely an hour into the plane and already severely wounded, broken like a plaything made of uncooked spaghetti noodles, his brow furrowed.

"Perhaps I will regain some of my power. _Recharge_, you might say. But... it is entirely unknown to me. In a day's time, I could be as weak and vulnerable as you."

Dean looked up with a glare. "Great..."

There was a silence between them as both of their minds worked furiously, Castiel's eyes scanning the cave, Dean's scanning Castiel. Furtively as he could manage, of course. But the more energy he expended in being subtle, the more his head buzzed and his limbs trembled.

"You're different," he piped up suddenly, not sure if it sounded bitter or not.

Castiel turned to him, eyes and expression flat.

"You're like you were before," Dean added. "Since we got here. You're not... you're not loopy anymore."

Cas' expression never faltered, though something in his eyes went hard and dark. Enough so for Dean to go silent as well, even nervous.

Dean gave a deep exhale, fighting through the pain of his torn muscles and snapped bones, hanging exposed and un-set. He knew that if Castiel could heal him, he would have. He could feel as much from the regretful tension rolling off the angel as he moved to sit beside him.

The deep exhale aided Dean in realizing how light-headed he was. He thought back to the feeling of his blood leaving him, seeping into the forest floor, precious drops disappearing into the moss that would never have such need of it as he himself did. Dean imagined he may have lost a fatal amount. He was sad to realize, at this point, he wasn't even scared for his own life. Death might be a relief - especially if he was destined to live out his final days, God forbid years, on this Hell adjacent plane.

Earth was hard enough, and it was full of _people_. Why would Dean fight twice as hard to live somewhere twice as bad?

_Sammy_. That's why. He held onto the thought of his brother, alone in the world, and it gave him almost enough will to want to live. He could fake it at least, until he died. Which, with the way his head was spinning and body going heavy and numb, he thought may be sooner rather than later.

He felt Cas lay a hand on his shoulder. That was when he realized he had closed his eyes; he had to fight to open them at the sensation of the angel's touch. Cas hovered close to Dean, both hands pressed to his injured body, deep concentration on his face. Dean could feel a slight tingle - muscles trying desperately to mend themselves with the help of Cas' angelic power. It helped, a little, but not enough.

"'s ok," Dean slurred out, noticing the lowness of his own voice.

Cas looked at him with a hard expression, tucking his arm behind Dean, as if in hopes of situating him better to make the minimal magic work more.

Dean allowed himself to be moved about like a doll. He simply looked up at Cas, taking in the angel's familiar face, remembering all that had gone before.

There was a long moment of quiet, wherein Dean watched Castiel's expression, the angel's face hovering just above his own, so deep in concentration, so bothered with regret and a soul-deep anger that Dean recognized all too easily. He watched Castiel pretend not to notice him staring.

"I was afraid..." Dean whispered, "when I thought you'd gone away." Castiel looked, finally, into those barely-focused green eyes, listening intently. Dean said honestly, quietly, "You left me alone down here..." his eyelids fluttered, "You left me all alone Cas."

Dean's eyes flickered closed, and were slow to open again.

Even Castiel, with his rudimentary knowledge of human emotions, knew that Dean wasn't entirely just talking about when he'd disappeared on him a mere hour ago in this place. He felt a surge of something in his chest as he looked down at the man, a kind of pleading in his eyes - not a pleading for help, or _save me_. But one that said _Tell me why_. One that said they'd had something once, and Dean regretted it being lost, and hurt to know why it had been taken from him.

Castiel couldn't offer any answer. Not now. They didn't have the time, and it didn't matter anyway.

Instead Castiel pressed all four fingertips gently to Dean's temple, and the man's eyes fluttered finally shut as he settled down into their makeshift bed - a cave floor and an angel's trenchcoat. His breathing evened out and his brow mostly un-furrowed and Castiel knew he was asleep. But he didn't move from above the man. Instead he whispered, close to his skin, "I'm sorry, Dean."

The man's brow and mouth quirked down into a sad frown for a split moment before going smooth again, and unconsciously turning his face to Castiel's shoulder, breathing softly against his white hospital shirt.

Dean looked younger now, asleep like this. He looked innocent and uncomplicated and in such desperate need of protection. Castiel knew, better than anyone but Sam, how strong Dean was, how well he pretended as though he needed nothing, as though his life weren't a burden dragging his soul down and down until it hurt to smile. How cynical and rough it had made him. How unwilling to believe, to trust... especially now, especially after...after he himself had...

A ferocious, angelic surge of duty, _responsibility_, gripped Castiel at his core. The in-assuagable need to fix this, to protect the righteous man, to right his wrongs, burned through his every cell with more passion and more conviction than he'd had in so long.

The feeling of mission, of certainty, of _right_, seared through him like it had when first he'd met Dean Winchester.

Castiel knew then, that his days of watching the flowers and honeybees was over. He knew, in that moment, with Dean in a new Hell, once again laying broken and unawares in his arms, that _this_ was his way back. Castiel would redeem himself, by finishing the job he had started four years ago.

Castiel would save Dean Winchester.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

After that night, Dean never really awoke again. It became impossible to calculate time, as the sun never rose, due to there being no sun. Just the faint teasing glimpse of light in the sky of a dawn that Castiel now knew would never come. But Castiel could feel time jerking by, much less smoothly than it did on Earth, which was still impossibly less smoothly than in Heaven. It was a strange, disorienting feeling that he hadn't known to expect - the suspicion that moments were entire days, and hours were mere seconds. Everything was backward, and in a way Castiel was glad that Dean didn't have to be conscious for the desperate attempt at re-orientation. A place where an angel could not tell time, was surely a place that could drive a mortal mad.

Or perhaps Castiel was trying too hard to find reasons why Dean not waking up was a good thing.

Castiel stayed with him, stemming the flow of blood as best he could and holding Dean's body against his own for as long as he could manage to not move. He observed as Dean flushed, and sweated, his clothes becoming damp and his cheeks becoming too red. And then, as if of a sudden, his skin would go pale, and his body cold and shivery. Over and over. Hot then cold. Twitchy, then frighteningly still. Over and over. And his eyes never opened.

Castiel knew what it was. It was death. The sickness that comes to a broken mortal body that's been twisted and mangled just enough to promise death and to be incapable of healing, but not enough to just kill it then and there.

Perhaps there was a human medical word - sepsis, infection, trauma.

None of them did justice to the horrifying sight and smell of it.

He could see Dean's solid form shaking with weakness, could smell him, rotting. He could smell the traitorous anatomy of human form crusting over, its unhealing wound poisoning Dean's blood while he could do nothing to stop it.

Castiel did everything he could, pressing as much of himself against Dean as he could, as often as he could, hoping to bleed through any remaining Grace. Sometimes he would lift Dean's shirt and remove his own, so that he could hold him skin to skin, allowing more surface area which meant a better possibility of spreading the Grace through. It was a necessity in Castiel's eyes, but still, it gave his stomach a tight knot of things he didn't understand, all of them laced with regret, which he very heavily understood.

When the time came that Dean went gray, his lips dry and colorless, and the flush never returned to his cheeks in a sudden fever as it always had before, Castiel knew without a doubt he had failed. Dean's breathing was shallow and labored. His brow no longer furrowed from time to time, in fever or delusion, but instead stayed stone still. All of him did. He was waxy and cold to the touch, and it turned Castiel's stomach. Despite his own dizziness and rapidly vanishing strength, Castiel tried once more to give Dean everything he had. He pulled his white hospital shirt over his head, kneeling down at Dean's side. He removed Dean's outer shirt - a green button up long since tattered and stained with stiff, dark brown blood. He pulled Dean's t-shirt up his body and over his head, trying not to grimace as it clung to the wound in his shoulder.

Castiel found himself frightened in a way, to look down at Dean, lying on the cave floor, the expanse of his upper-body now visible, and so deathly pale. His eyebrows stood dark against the paleness of his skin, and his orange freckles stood out in a way that made Castiel take a new, bittersweet notice of them. Dean's lips were gray and parted. There was nothing about it that reminded Castiel of sleeping though. Dean didn't look warm and peaceful. He looked sinewy and cold and sick. He seemed smaller. Castiel realized with a sudden nausea and a heavy heart that in all this time-that-wasn't, Dean hadn't been fed, hadn't been given water - because his caretaker was like an oblivious child left with a live plaything he had no hopes of realizing how to care for. In that moment Castiel hated himself far more than he ever had after releasing Purgatory. _Ignorant_, he chided himself.

He clenched his fists, determination renewed, and hefted Dean's limp body up against his own, until their chests were pressed flat to one another and Dean's head had fallen forward so that his chin jutted into Castiel's shoulder, his legs bent at the knees and spread awkwardly so that it was almost like he was kneeling.

Castiel looped his arms around the dead weight of him, pulling him tightly against himself, his stomach doing something strange and distracting at the feeling of it.

Castiel held him, and squeezed, and tried to push out any remaining grace, anything he had to give. And little pulses left him, their bright-hot warmth seeping through Dean's skin with concerted effort.

But Dean didn't move. Nothing happened.

A spike of panic hit Castiel, catching his breath in his chest as he realized.. Dean was gone. Or in the very least, he was going. Castiel couldn't stand the thought - No Dean...

It was like nothing he could imagine. An empty world. A solitary existence, alone in this... place. Alone in everything. Left with nothing but the memory of his failures, with no chance to put any of it right to the one person who counted.

Hell. That would be Castiel's Hell.

And Dean would die, never knowing his regret. Never getting to see his brother again. He would leave life cold and pained and in the dirt. And that would not do.

Castiel pulled Dean back to look at his face, and shivered when he saw nothing there. No semblance of _Dean_, but just the handsome shell that wore him so well. Once. Castiel's heart thudded in his throat, his whole body trembled, and he had the almost undeniable urge to call out to God.

But he knew his father wouldn't hear anyway. Or wouldn't care. And it couldn't end like this. It couldn't. Dean deserved more. And he couldn't do without -

Castiel remembered then, that there were things within that were made of life, in their very being. Spirit. Soul. _Grace_.

The angel's mind worked furiously - perhaps he'd been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps this required, what did Dean say... a _Hail Mary_ kind of play.

In a snap Castiel went from panic to determination. He had a new plan. He vowed to do everything necessary to save Dean Winchester, and now he would. He knew how to re-power his Grace through pure contact with a human soul. It was time to discover if the process worked the other way around.

If he could touch Dean's soul with his remaining Grace, then maybe...

An indistinguishable voice screeched in his head, _Blasphemy! Certain failure. Death to your Grace should you be so foolish! BLASPHEMY._

Castiel knew it was forbidden. He knew it was invasive, for both of them, that neither may survive and both would probably never be the same.

He didn't care.

Castiel pressed his hand to Dean's exposed abdomen, hoping to be able to reach inside as he had with Bobby and Sam, and countless others. But being cut off from Heaven, in this awful plane, he didn't have the power to manipulate human matter as he had before.

Dean's body was hopelessly in the way of his soul, and Castiel needed a way to get to it. He needed a door, a way inside, a way that lay undefended.

As Dean's face brushed against Castiel's clavicle the angel had a thought, a memory, of when he'd lain with his human wife for the brief time his life had been less complicated. When he kissed her, when he was impassioned with her, he could feel her soul at work. He didn't know then what he was feeling; it wouldn't be until later, when he'd grasped his true identity again that he would re-remember everything he experienced in his months as a wolf in sheep's clothing. But in that time he remembered touching her, making love to her, and kissing her. He didn't love her now as he had then; that person, Emmanuel, was dead. If he ever truly lived. But Castiel still remembered the _feeling_. He remembered the awe at feeling her give herself over, at opening her lips and feeling her true essence buzzing inside.

He thinks now, bitterly, that even then he was a moth to the flame of human soul.

But if it can help him now, he doesn't care.

Castiel hefts Dean's body up onto his own tightly, the solid, dead weight of it almost enough to tip him back. But he's too determined to be stopped. Dean's head fell limp and heavy onto Catiel's shoulder, the cool skin of his forehead sticking. Castiel used an arm around Dean's back to hold them pressed together, and another to lift Dean's face to his own.

He looked like a ghost, something cold and barely existing, made to tease Castiel.

He didn't have time or care to think what Dean would want, how he would feel about this, if it would be a violation of his personal space or his rights. He tilted Dean's head up, cradled it in his hand, and leant down pressing their lips together.

Everything felt wrong - Dean's skin was cool, and tacky. He was unmoving, and tasted of smoke and poison. Castiel worked Dean's slack mouth open with ease, and breathed him in. He could feel it then, and the sharp relief was almost enough to dull the pang of pain at feeling Dean's soul almost snuffed out, darkened like a fading star. But it wasn't gone, not yet. It wasn't destroyed. Much like the man Castiel had grown to know, Dean's soul was stubborn; it hadn't given up, and it wouldn't until the last spark.

Castiel's Grace latched onto the reaching tendrils Dean's soul, weakly, just barely understanding it, grasping its location with the slightest awareness. They were both so weak. Castiel knew it would take everything. He closed his eyes, crushing his lips against his, holding his body desperately tight, breathing his Grace into him.

It was a foreign feeling, having _Castiel_, the self, the awareness remain in one vessel, and the Grace float out - it took considerable effort and knifes-edge concentration, and all the while it felt sort of... wrong. Like this sort of thing was never supposed to happen this way, it was unnatural. But Castiel forced it. He had no intention of giving up or turning back. Even as his vessel began to shake.

When his Grace sank into Dean's mouth, it quickly found his soul, as if magnetically drawn to it. When his Grace latched on to Dean's soul, Castiel felt a sharp, deep, ripping pain. He barely recognized the tortured sound erupting from himself, and the pain was so much, that it nearly knocked him away from Dean. But Castiel held on fiercely, even as his strength was ripped away and he collapsed back, sitting on his own heels.

His grace buzzed against Dean's soul, which was brightening with every second they were entwined. And he could feel a rioting chaos of mingling lifesources between them, fusing them. When Dean's soul burned so bright that it felt as though Castiel's insides were scorched, the thing pulsed suddenly, knocking Castiel away.

He thudded back against the ground hard, hearing Dean do the same, as though they were blasted apart. And Castiel had enough mind to catalogue the feelings he was left with - a dull throbbing physical soreness, exhaustion, slight disorientation, a not unpleasant tingling sensation over his skin, and the debilitating motion of his grace settling back into himself. Unwhole. His grace was strong, buzzing, invigorated, but incomplete.

He struggled to sit up, his body feeling heavy, feeling as though his usual overabundance of strength was gone. _That will be interesting. _ He slowly pulled himself up sitting, his eyes too blurry to make anything out. He shook his head and blinked around the cave until his eyes settled on something he could see clearly...

And went wide.

...

Dean breathed. He breathed in, feeling his lungs ache, his chest expand, and he breathed out, feeling the air leave him. He was just on the tip of awareness, feeling leaden-heavy and disoriented - as if all of his limbs, everything, had fallen asleep and he couldn't get the proper blood-racing going to wake them all up.

When everything started to tingle just this side of painfully, he tried to move, to help it along. But he found his body slow to cooperate.

When he dragged his eyes open he expected everything to be dark, blurry, confusing. But he found he saw everything perfectly. Though it took a moment to process what it was he was in fact seeing, the vision came in crisp and clear, the dark of the cave barely a hindrance to seeing every line, groove, and detail. His eyes scanned, taking everything in, until they landed on the one thing that proved most confusing of all.

Castiel was wide-eyed and disheveled, his pale chest expanding and contracting with fast breath. His eyes were locked on Dean. And Dean wished to speak, to call out to him, to ask him what happened, or if he was ok. But his voice was gone - his throat dry and tight.

The effort of the want made Dean's exhaustion spire up through his body, and he felt the pull of sleep, too powerful for him to fight.

Castiel simply stared, and though Dean was now too tired and disoriented to muster a word, or care to ask how long it had been, he thought he noticed an unfamiliar look in Castiel's eyes. It was a kind of exhilaration, but not a happy one. It was fascination and fright.

They stared until it seemed Castiel couldn't anymore.

"I'll... make a fire," Cas scraped out, his voice deeper and hoarse from lack of use and whatever nerves were shaking him. With that he stood stiffly and walked out into the dark, pulling his shirt on as he went.

Dean laid still, staring around, trying to wake his body and listening carefully for Castiel's return.


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm sorry for the wait on this chapter. Real life got in the way - how dare it. Thanks so much to everyone who has subscribed and commented, I appreciate you! _

_Also, I enjoyed the season eight premiere immensely and I can't wait to find out more about Dean's time in Purgatory. Though, I'm fairly certain it will be nothing like the following..._

* * *

Chapter Three.

Castiel walked stiffly from Dean until he left the mouth of the cave, where he collapsed at its entrance, shaking and gasping for breath.

It should have, in all rights, been a _what have I done?_ moment. But Castiel pushed the fear of the line he'd crossed to the back of his mind in favor of concentrating on keeping them both alive. He forced himself to remember that once again he didn't have the luxury of emotion. Purgatory was no place for a breakdown, he could still hear vile things scratching through the leaves in the distance. He stood up, took a deep breath, and willed his body to stop shaking.

Now that he was upright and thinking again Castiel realized the extent of the grace that had been left behind - severed. It was a strange, nagging feeling that Castiel wondered how would effect him in time to come. But frankly, he was surprised to have gotten it back at all. He was surprised that both of them were alive, if you could still call them that whilst existing on this plane. He'd assumed one for sure, if not both of them would be dead from the mere attempt. They should be. But then, there were plenty of times before when they should have been dead, and weren't. At least, not for long.

Perhaps this was what he deserved for his resurrections and his many trespasses - to die slowly, painfully, of a gaping wound he could neither see nor help. Perhaps Dean would be poisoned by his Grace - inhuman, poisonous in its betrayal of his friends and comrades, and Castiel would have to watch, helpless. Perhaps _that_ was what he deserved for his wickedness.

Or perhaps, if Castiel was very lucky, just this once, Dean would be fine and wouldn't even notice. Maybe, if Castiel said nothing, Dean would simply never piece together what had happened in that moment of panic. And Castiel would be all too happy to have Dean alive and none the wiser.

Castiel set to gathering firewood, refusing to think of what he was going to say to Dean if the time came.

* * *

Dean woke with a start, not so much pleased as apathetically observant of his clear headedness. The hair on the back of his neck was stood up, and his vision was sharper than ever. He scanned the walls of the darkened cave, smelling wet earth and smoke.

Suddenly a hand was over his mouth and the heat of another living thing was at his side. He fought at first, but only for a fraction of a second, until his body seemed to know somehow that it was Cas. Dean's eyes darted to the angel's, but his were scanning fruitlessly around the cave. Until finally, with frustration, he closed them, furrowing his brow.

"There's only one right now," he whispered, his eyes still closed. "If we are hidden enough, it won't find us. If it does, it will bring others. And more than likely, we will be eaten while we still live."

There was a long, heavy moment of stuffy quiet, where Dean breathed heavily against Castiel's hand, and the angel remained still as marble, listening. Dean heard nothing, but Castiel heard everything.

"It's gone," Castiel said finally, releasing him. "In a little while I will relight the fire. When I know it's safe."

Castiel extracted himself from Dean, moving quietly to the wall of the cave and sitting down beside it, leaning against the rocks. Dean was unsettled by the loss of warmth once he was gone.

* * *

The time between them was quiet now. Something had changed, and while they both knew it they found that their interactions remained mostly the same. Everything was to be expected; Dean recovered gradually and Castiel tended stoically to that purpose. Neither of them noticed that the essential hurtle to their communication, actual speech, had been subtly removed. Castiel simply seemed to know when Dean needed, and Dean simply needed to feel the hair on his neck stand up to look at Castiel as if to say they were in imminent danger.

Words were obtuse.

In that first bit of time after Dean awoke he was feverish, yet gray. He was slowly recovering from the death he didn't entirely meet. He didn't get _better_, per se, but he didn't get worse. His wound became hard and tough from exposure to the open air until it was like a black scab. His dizziness receded until he could stand, and then walk, and so on. And his strength began to return. But he never lost the grayish pallor to his skin - that paleness that alluded to the loss of that essential thing that was life. His eyes were flat and dark, a bruise-like complexion shadowing their underneaths.

The green spark and orange flash of him was gone. And Castiel mourned for it before he could work out what it was that was missing.

It had been a long, empty distance between them, though they'd never strayed outside of each other's sight. Castiel was still reeling from what he'd done, what he'd seen happen to Dean and what he'd been moved to do about it. And Dean was still tired, sore, and bothered by an unsettled feeling stirring in his gut that something between he and Castiel had shifted yet again. But as usual, it was difficult for him to identify what was going on between them.

It'd been hours, which could be merely minutes or days, of moderately comfortable silence between them when Dean finally spoke. He was sitting, legs folded, in front of the small fire, the orange glow of it giving his gaunt face a hollow look, the light making his eyes look a demon-black. It was a strange juxtaposition with the boyish way he sat, like a boy scout on a camping trip, drawing patterns in the dirt with a crooked stick.

Castiel could feel for some time before Dean spoke that he was going to do so. When he does, his voice comes out a rough squeak at first, and he has to clear his throat to start again.

"Why'd you leave... before?

Castiel furrowed his brow, tilting his head at the man. He hadn't left Dean's side, not once, since... He remembered his brief separation from Dean when they had first arrived. A sudden disappearance it must have seamed to the man. But Castiel had all but forgotten that, it'd been years ago. Or yesterday. Either way, Castiel set Dean straight. "I didn't."

Dean merely cocked his head and waited for an explanation.

"I didn't _intend_ to," Cas corrected. "I was... pulled."

"Pulled?"

"Angels aren't meant for this plane." He stated evenly, busying himself with stoking the fire, finding it a good enough reason to not look at Dean. "Heaven's power did what it could to rectify the situation."

There was a moment of dead silence.

"They zapped you out?" Dean asked eagerly. Then immediately guessed, "Obviously not, cause you're here. But... they tried. Do you think they'll try again? Maybe they'll get you outta here."

Dean cringed at the hope in his own voice. He hoped Castiel hadn't recognized it as such, but he had, and something throbbed sharply in the angel's chest for it.

He hid it well. "No," he stated firmly.

There was something in the ease of the answer that had Dean curious and wary. Cas was so sure, so unwilling to look into Dean's eyes... "How can you be so sure? They tried once, they might try again."

"I'm hardly worth -"

"Oh shut up Cas. Besides, they'd do it just to prove they didn't fail the first time. It'd be a point of pride," Dean surmised with a smirk that looked more wicked than charming with the hollowness of it. "You just have to hold out for them to zap you up-"

"That won't be happening."

"Cas, they're not gonna leave you down here if they tried to get you out once already and screwed it up-"

"They didn't."

Dean simply stared at Castiel, his dark, hollow eyes turning the angel's stomach. Castiel coul feel him trying to work it through.

"I resisted," Castiel put plainly. Aloof. But his unwillingness to look Dean in the eye spoke volumes. Under the deafeningly silent scrutiny of Dean, Castiel explained, "I refused to be taken. I doubt they will make a similar attempt again."

A long moment of pressing silence hung between them before Castiel had to look up. Dean sat there, still, staring at Castiel, his face unreadable. It was an expression Castiel shivered to notice, was extremely angelic in its blankness.

Of a sudden Castiel was overwhelmed by a surge of something he could only describe as emotion, human emotion. But before he could be frightened at wondering where it had come from, it took hold of him in the for of a very specific desperation - the need to be understood, to explain oneself.

"I couldn't have gone, Dean. I saw Heaven's light, I saw the Earth and humanity and my home, my brethren. It was but a reach away... but, I _couldn't_."

Dean jerked upright, wincing but hardly noticing the pain. His jaw clenched but still he said nothing.

Castiel couldn't stand how much he needed Dean to speak.

Finally Dean growled, impossibly lowly, "You had the chance to get out of here and you... Why would you... CAS! What the Hell were you _thinking_!?"

"I owe you a debt, Dean," the angel answered forcefully. "To abandon you here alone would be to hand you to Death himself." He failed to mention that death may have claimed Dean once already whilst here, but it certainly wouldn't help his point to bring it up.

Dean could say nothing. He simply stared.

"I couldn't do that. I couldn't have left you here alone."

Dean appeared briefly surprised, and an emotion stirred in his eyes momentarily that he quickly hid away. They spent the rest of their fire in silence.

* * *

Many fires were made. Many silent sittings, or quiet spells were shared between them. There wasn't much for them to do in Purgatory but hide, and try to stay alive. Though the quietness of their existence was constantly threatened by the ever-looming predators of the plane, catching up to their hiding places more and more quickly every time.

Castiel and Dean both noticed - they were running out of safe places. But neither said anything. They simply shared each other's space, and watched each other's backs.

It was a long time later when Dean realized that something had been missing from their little campfire setting. It was an unsettling realization, that dawned on him in a snap and left him shaky and desperate to feel something that he found he simply couldn't. He barely remembered what it used to feel like. In his desperate confusion he looked to Cas and stated quietly, "I'm not hungry."

And Castiel looked at Dean as though he'd been dreading the time when Dean would notice, as if he already knew somehow, that something was wrong and was trying to keep Dean from noticing as long as possible.

"Cas, am I dead?"

Castiel swallowed and his eyes faltered, down to the fire.

"I'm not hungry anymore. Not thirsty. I don't... hurt. I'm just..." he looked up at him with hollow eyes. "Am I dead?"

Castiel said nothing, and that was when Dean realized the terrifying truth - that the angel honestly didn't know. But he had a feeling. Dean could tell, they both had the same feeling - that it was a terrifying mix of _yes_ and _no_. He had died. Or he should have.

But you cannot die in a place without death. Without time. Death could not reap him here.

And neither of them knew where that left Dean.

* * *

When the hair on Dean's arms prickles up, it's just about time to start a new fire. The feeling, the inhuman instinct of knowing they were in danger happens suddenly, and just as Castiel was cresting the hill behind Dean not fifteen feet away, firewood in arm.

Dean's eyes were closed to aid the still disorienting sense.

Dean felt Castiel sense the beast coming up behind him, and without hesitation Dean turned, and threw his hatchet where he knew the thing would be. It screamed and fell, scrambling away through the woods. And Dean did not miss the fact that Cas had not even turned - he never got the chance to turn and face his attacker, because Dean had gotten to it first. And neither were sure how. It was as if for a split moment, Dean's senses were heightened. But it was more than that... it was as if those senses didn't belong to him, but Cas. _Castiel_ had felt that something was there, but Dean had been the one to act on it.

Castiel felt the thing behind him, but Dean turned before he could. Dean had never been faster than Cas.

They stared at each other, a hill between them, Castiel still holding his bundle of firewood. It was then that they knew for sure, everything was different.


	4. Chapter 4

_I wanted to say first and foremost that your guys' reviews are amazing. Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. __Also, this one was always going to be a little tumultuous from the beginning, so fair warning for any dark themes. I'm going to raise the rating pre-emptively._

_This chapter isn't entirely plot heavy, so I apologize for a teaser. But it is important nonetheless, I promise._

_(PS - this week's episode is breaking my heart. Holy flashback Batman - Love it.)_

_To Starcatcher17 and tevote: I hope this was a little bit quicker with the update this time for ya. :) __I'm going to attempt to be a little quicker with the updates, but we'll see how that goes. (__In the interest of cranking out chapters between work and real life, I'm going to be a little less effective with the proof-reading I feel.)_

_Hope all you lovelies like it._

* * *

Chapter Four

They'd run out of places to hide.

All of Purgatory was hungry for the delicacy of what was never supposed to be there - one Human, one Angel. They were exotic snacks for the more base creatures, and a more exotically challenging hunt for the higher-brow monsters.

Purgatory was like a sick game, and you had to play.

Fighting for their lives was a daily occurrence and the only thing Dean did with any semblance of vitality. And when he looked over to Cas, turning his angel-sword in hand deftly, blue eyes piercing through the forrest, he knew that in this God forsaken place, they had gotten back that comraderie that they fell short of after the averted apocalypse, in their time of so-called peace. They were men of war. Violence brought out the best in them, or at least, the best in their friendship. And though this world was dark and cruel and exhausting, Dean was almost glad.

Castiel dealt with his sudden resurgence of violence fairly well considering only months ago he was an avid pacifist. He told himself, there were no bees in Purgatory. Nothing beautiful and natural to wonder at. He mourned for that version of himself, a more innocent Castiel, vanquished into nothing by this place, and he felt himself slip back into his warrior skin so easily. It was frightening to him really, how certainly he'd believed that his fighting days were done, that his violence was over forever, and how easily he overturned that conviction now.

Castiel began to doubt that he was ever meant for peace. He thrived too well on war.

But there was still something there, a reserved kind of sadness, when he was quick and deadly and held some monster's throat in his hand, that showed through - at least it did to Dean. Castiel was never pleased to kill anything, granted, he never had been. But it had rarely made him sad. Dean could see a sadness in him sometimes, despite his verve for the hunt.

Dean didn't bother to wonder if everyday was going to be like this - all adrenaline and the smell of blood, and hate that rears up so suddenly that it leaves him shaking, but gives him the strength to destroy. He didn't bother, because there were no days. Not in purgatory. It was better if he didn't try to put a number of hours on it.

Instead he judged the time by Castiel's moods, by the set of his brow, by the look on his face after they killed something new.

There was a certain exhilaration they both shared, after a fight, as if they were soldiers from an ancient world smirking over the impossibility of their success at battle. Unlikely victors, very nearly proud of themselves. And in those frantic moments of racing breath after animalistic attack Dean would look over at Castiel, and the fire in his eyes and the blood on his teeth would make him wonder...

if maybe it wasn't the rest of Purgatory that should be afraid of them, instead of the other way around.

And he would know it was so, because he was smiling too.

There was something maniacal in it. Something that had always been in them. Something violent and fierce and just this side of wicked that the human world would never have allowed them to let out. But it had always been there; that was clearer now than ever.

Castiel had shown a glimpse, and the guilt of it had driven him mad.

But here, there was no society. There was no _wrong_. No _frightening_, no terror at the lack of abandon. Here there was simply...

Kill or be killed.

A cliche that Dean had always thought he understood better than most, but had never understood quite so fully as he did now.

There was no hesitation, as there had been when Dean was just a man in the world. He figured he was a little less of one now. But standing next to Castiel, when he got that wolfish grin of challenge, twirling his knife in his hand idly, waiting for the next beast to attack, Dean had the dark and frightening thought that maybe, they'd evolved into something... more. Less than human, more than man. Something... _other_.

And the strange alteration to his self, to both of them, since Dean had woken up after his injury, had the hunter with a sort of lack of identity, a confusion he couldn't quite put his finger on, feeling that he wasn't the same, he wasn't _Dean_ as he used to be. Yet, he and Castiel shared a certainty, they _shared_ an identity, and they killed to survive and never thought to stop.

No hesitating to make sure your target was deserving of death. No mercy. No thought.

Everything was base, instinct.

No deals, no tricks. Just fight.

And at every turn Castiel is there. They communicate without talking. Without thinking. It becomes as automatic as the muscle memory of a phantom limb. It happens without either of them making it.

But there were the harsh realities of their mortal frailty to contend with.

Dean's shoulder was still sore. It flared up every now and again, leaving him wincing and irritated. Castiel would often lay his hands to it, sometimes less than gently, almost as if out of his own irritation, to soothe Dean's pain. Though, there was not much angelic healing left, Dean always took the touch graciously. He would never admit it, but he pretended sometimes, for Cas' sake, that he had helped. Dean appreciated the attempt, and any small spec of relief that may come of it.

The ache was a dull throbbing kind of thing, that sometimes spiked into a sharper jab. It was something like the way a persistent hunger used to be, Dean thought. An ache, deep and irritating, and then a pang of demand. But he didn't feel that kind of pain anymore, which was extremely unsettling in and of itself.

Castiel forced him to eat. Usually flesh from the creatures they were able to take down, roasted on their meager hearth. Dean refused, naturally, finding himself no longer hungry and moreso, finding the prospect of eating a monster wholly disgusting. As if their flesh would turn him bad himself. Castiel supposed, with everything they'd faced and everything Sam had gone through with Ruby, Dean's assumption was not altogether outlandish. And surely if Dean were going to perish it would have been when he lay cold and rotting in Castiel's arms. But still Castiel pressured Dean to eat, going so far as to strip the meat off of the unlucky creature himself, and cook it for the hunter. He was desperate to keep Dean keeping up at least the appearance of mortal life, even if Dean was all too happy to succumb to the unnatural way of the place.

The first time, Castiel very nearly forced the meat into Dean's mouth, holding the man down to the cave floor with an arm across the chest. Dean seceded before suffering the embarrassment of force-feeding. Castiel kept his face a blank mask the entire time.

From then on Dean begrudgingly ate what Castiel put in front of him, wholly if not happily. And Castiel could see him forcing it down.

He remembered the appetite Dean once had, for everything, even if Dean couldn't.

* * *

Dean and Castiel were both silently glad to have known a transient lifestyle on Earth. The constant uprooting in Purgatory may have left a normal, nesting kind of person insane after the first hundred moves. But Dean and Castiel didn't set down roots anywhere but each other. They didn't see a piece of land as home, so much as tactically advantageous for the time being - until it wasn't. And when that time came, they simply grabbed their coats and weapons, and left it behind. They had no possessions and no sentimentality.

Staying put got you killed. And neither were agreeable to dying for the sake of temporary comfort.

They made fires, if it wasn't too risky. And they slept hidden under bushes, or in dirt holes they had dug themselves, covered up with sticks and branches. They took turns sleeping, or if they were very tired and feeling uncharacteristically safe, they both slept at once, when they could. Huddled together, back to back, weapons in hand.

They didn't talk about the disturbing fact that Castiel _needed_ sleep.

There was one day Dean awoke to Castiel's crushing grip on his forearm - Dean opened his eyes to see Castiel's wide and blue. Dean knew that look by now - he was listening. Listening to something very carefully.

Whatever it was came close enough that even Dean could hear it, and his heart thudded in his chest. That meant it was pretty damn close. It scratched through the woods, not bothering to hide itself, no need to be clever. Not here.

A wendigo. He knew it, though he didn't know how. And Dean knew also that they didn't have the necessary tools on hand to dispatch a wendigo with any semblance of haste.

They stayed still for hours it seemed, huddled together, bodies pressed from forehead, to shoulder, to intertwined legs and Dean's boots against Castiels canvas hospital shoes, barely breathing while the thing above waited. Until it seemed to give up the hunt for their scent. And when they finally climbed from their hole the air was cold and too open after the warmth of their shared breath and the hidden security of their underground bed. It was an ominous enough feeling to warn Dean that something was bad, just before he was tackled to the ground by something solid, and angry. With the wind knocked out of him he looked up to see a mouth full of fangs.

He fights the vampire as far away from his throat as he can, hearing the sounds of Castiel doing the same in the distance and has the futile hope that Castiel is still strong enough to win.

He shoves the vampire over getting free enough to jump up so they can face off evenly. their stand off is cut short when the vampire's head is lobbed off, leaving a stoic Castiel to watch it slump to the ground. Dean is almost disappointed not to have gotten to fight it. He looks to the side and sees two more vampire's bodies lying decapitated in the dirt. He looks to Castiel, fierce and startlingly unruffled.

Dean knows then that yes, Castiel is strong enough, and he feels small for having doubted it.

Castiel wiped his machete on his coat and walked away, leaving Dean to follow.

* * *

Purgatory inspires, over time, an utter abandon unlike anything humanity has to offer - an animal willingness to take whatever you can, as much as you can, because you can. To kill until there's nothing left to defeat, until you graciously accept the long-awaited challenger that would kill you.

It's a heady, archaic sort of way of looking at life, but Dean and Cas feel wise for embracing it.

Dean and Castiel feel resolved about killing. Dean and Castiel are calm about death, they are unbothered by it surrounding them.

Everything they feel seems somewhat inevitable, and is inexplicably shared. And they find themselves, for the first time in a long time, in complete agreement.

When they fight, they move as two parts of one assassin. They are equally dangerous and doubly effective in their ability to silently work together. War is what they do now, their trade (in some ways it always was). And they are undeniably good at it.

Each are equally burning to save the other, and to spray righteous rage, like acid, all over this wretched place with every drop of spilled enemy's blood. Because this anger, has been a long time coming. And all of their past torture, all of the training, is finally paying off.

In the back of their minds they share a thought... of ridding Purgatory of evil, every last goddamned one, until it's just them, and the forrest.

It is an impossible goal, perhaps, but it is something to barrel forward towards. After all, angels are soldiers. Winchesters are soldiers. And soldiers need a mission.

* * *

Castiel wracks his brain sometimes, for ways he might get them, or even just Dean, out of here. He mostly waits until Dean is asleep to think of it, as Dean always seems to know when it crosses Castiel's mind, and for some reason it makes him unsettled, irritable. Castiel knows somehow too, that Dean's reaction comes from not liking the idea of leaving Castiel behind, and Castiel likes that. But also, the torturous pursuit of an unattainable salvation makes Dean sad. He would rather not miss what he knows he can never go back to. He would just as soon pretend that Sam and earth and sunlight don't exist; it is easier than coming to terms with never getting back to them.

But it doesn't stop Castiel from considering sometimes, while Dean sleeps in the dirt beside him, what it might take to get him out. To truly save him.

* * *

Dean doesn't realize fully the first time he feels it - that twinge low in his gut, when he looks at the angel, sees an equal, and wants him. He doesn't think so much anymore, so he doesn't analyze. He doesn't recognize yet the feeling he has, the instinct - to fuck. To touch and bite and writhe and work out every bit of adrenaline until they are one unbeatable, invincible unit - inseparable, _together_, in every way.

Dean doesn't realize yet it is what he wants.

But Castiel sees it in his face.

_And when Dean looks at him, predatory and wicked and smirking with blood on his hands and fast breath in his chest, Castiel isn't afraid. He knows he should be - he would've been, back in the world. But that was a long time ago, and a far ways away. And the instinct to fear basic wants for their sinfulness is almost forgotten to him now. So when he looks at Dean, he feels sharp, and alive, and there's a pull in his abdomen that he enjoys and doesn't bother to put a name to._

Whatever happens, happens.

Neither of them have responsibility anymore. They don't have anything to hide. Not here.

* * *

It dawns on Dean one morning, (at least, it feels like morning - there's a crispness to the air and the sky is light) that he has not spoken in some time. Nor has Castiel. He realizes without much concern at all that he may have forgotten how. He clears his throat, to see if he is still capable, and a deep scratchy sound comes out, as if his was the voice of a man asleep for a very long time.

Across the clearing Castiel meets his eyes.

They say nothing. They're not worried about it.


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm so sorry people! I got hit with a massive writers block. Then I got hit with a hurricane. __Hopefully, I'm back on track._

_I hope you guys like the chapter, it took me awhile to 'get back on the horse', so they say. So I really, truly, abundantly appreciate any reviews. __So does the horse._

* * *

Chapter Five.

Castiel hears everything. Every snapping twig, every rustle in the woods, the eery absence of wind. Castiel can even hear the hitch in Dean's breath - the one that means he's hurting from running too far and too fast, the one that means he's been caught by surprise, and the one that comes sometimes when he's sleeping, when Castiel moves too close. Dean sucks in an unconscious breath, Castiel can always hear the puffing up of his chest through the rustling of his clothes, and then the man goes silent, and still, as if waiting to be pulled from the edge of an overwhelming precipice.

In those moments Castiel can hear Dean's heart quicken startlingly, still without his knowledge. The angel tries to stop himself from making it happen again and again just so he can listen to it, tries not to spend his shift on watch ruminating on what it might mean. But more often than not, that is what happens. Instead of listening far to the deeps of Purgatory for coming threats, he listens to Dean. The steadiness of his breath, the beat of his heart.

There are times, both when the man is asleep and when he is awake, that Castiel swears he's become so in tune with him that he can hear so much as the furrow of his brow, the whirring of his mind at work, the click of a decision being made.

Over and over again, he tells himself that such a thing is impossible.

But then, another part of him argues, how does he always know when a decision has been made, when Dean sees something he doesn't, when the man is thinking about home, or death, or him, always without asking.

* * *

Dean sleeps fitfully. Never truly rested. His mind is full of flashing thoughts, like remembered images, that don't belong to him. Things that overwhelm him even in his unconscious state. Very nearly visceral dreams of wars on a battlefield that his mind cannot comprehend aside from knowing it is made of light and eternity, silver shields and bloody swords. Enemies come for him that he finds himself reluctant to kill, as he feels a deep, nearly cellularly ingrained love for them, though he cannot see their faces.

And all of it disappears when he opens his eyes.

Dean never remembers these dreams once he wakes up. Sometimes when he thinks very hard, during long stretches of silence, he can almost remember. But it drives a white hot stake through his skull, and hollows out his heart. He thinks, if it hurts so bad to think about, it is best he doesn't remember.

Though his exhaustion being purposeless is extremely frustrating.

* * *

When Dean first woke after his sort-of death, he was quiet and moody. His silence rooted in frustration. Hopelessness. His brother was alone in the world and Dean suffered every moment with the knowledge. They were trapped, in a land where they were not only hunted out in the open, but they were the absolute bottom of the food chain. All of this knowledge seemed to culminate into Dean struggling, to keep going with any kind of fervor.

But the weight on Dean seemed to ease with every passing moment. Castiel noticed that his own proximity seemed to effect that directly. The nearer he stayed to Dean, the easier Dean's chest relaxed.

They didn't speak, they'd done enough of that to last them a good long while. They simply washed up by the stream in a companionable silence. Dean was rinsing the blood off of his shirt, using the soaking cloth to pull across his his chest and neck, removing dirt and blood - the two components that make up the grime that comprises Purgatory.

Castiel sat back on his heels and watched, knowing Dean would pay the staring no mind. He wondered, if they were back in the world, if watching Dean might be awkward, unacceptable. It would be. Doubly so, he imagined, if he admitted that somewhere inside him there was a kind of joy for it. For a split-second, Castiel felt glad to be here, instead of there.

Dean was all too calm in the muggy gray of the woods, rinsing his hands in the stream, absently watching the tint of red float away down the current. The hunter was quiet, comfortable, content. There was a stab at Castiel's heart as he realized, he'd forgotten to work hardest on getting Dean out of here. He had failed too long at saving him and now, now he was content.

_I should have gotten you out sooner, _he thought, his eyebrows drawing together sadly.

Dean looked up at Cas then, searching his eyes. After a moment of consideration he offered a small, simple smile before returning his concentration to the stream.

It was something the angel had never seen before - at least, not directed at him. A simple, honest smile. Castiel's chest ached with the suddenly noticeable thudding of his heart.

* * *

A flash of gold, that's all it took. A flash of gold on some humanoid monster's tattered clothing reminded Dean of something he'd all but forgotten - his amulet. He'd seen it through the woods, from a mile away. An unsurprising feat ever since the day he'd woken up and could see... everything. But it struck him, the little gold detail in the distance. Memory of his amulet snapped into his brain violently, eclipsing everything else. That one piece of jewelry was a totem of his love for his brother that he had a long time regretted letting go of so easily, distracted by the hefty weight of the big picture, the hopelessness of it all.

It seemed poignant then, dropping it into some no-tell motel trash can on his way out.

The big picture was confusing, overwhelming, and Dean thinks bitterly, a distraction from what was right in front of him - his little brother's hopeful eyes. The amulet was a token of their closeness. A tangible reminder of his past, his humanity, his achilles heel, his brother.

He'd all but given up, but Sam never did. Sam had saved the world - a world that never thanked him. A world they two never truly got to enjoy, never got to appreciate for its beauty and vastness, everything it had to offer in the space of one tiny human life.

Now Dean is here, separated from his brother, from all humanity - the earth's and his own.

The one saving grace of which being that his existence in Purgatory had been blissfully absent of the emotional pain of memories and family and life on earth. He'd pushed it all away from the start.

But one flash of gold on a monster's vest, and it's **_Sammy Sammy Sammy_**.

Dean breaks. He's sees red. And everything he hadn't felt for however the fuck long he'd been here, ruptured form its hiding place in the back of his mind and flooded him inside with a searing violence.

And the monster in the distance can sense it. It knows it's caught, unmatched; it can see the look in Dean's eye, and it turns to run. Too late. Dean shakes with rage, and lets out a scream that grows from a growl, running toward it. His boots crunch over leaves, cracking twigs, and he can feel Castiel turn in their direction. Dean has no need for a stealthy approach here. He is going to outright chase, and he is going to win.

Dean tackles blindly, lunging forward and knowing without doubt that he will bring the thing down. He punches and punches, throwing his arms, his whole weight into in until he can't see anything but his stupid thrown-by-the-wayside gold amulet. He can't feel anything but rage and regret and warm wet blood and crunching under his knuckles.

He feels nothing else. Nothing else that he could describe in words.

He just kills.

Until Castiel is pulling him back, grabbing him roughly around the shoulders thinking _enough, it's enough now Dean_. And Dean's senses come back to him as he is tipped back, off balance - his knuckles raw and bloody, his fingers sliced open. He looks down to see the thing hardly has a face anymore. His hands are cut from its broken bones. And when his eyes slide down to the thing's chest, he sees an oddly shaped gold button, now smudged with blood.

Dean absently reaches to where his amulet used to hang, but his wet fingers find nothing but the fabric of his shirts.

He stands on unsteady feet, walking slowly away, not daring to look at Castiel who he can feel is watching him - his eyes are burning into him. Dean knows Castiel is looking at him with a concern that hadn't even occurred to either of them for a long while.

The concern for sanity, for emotional well-being.

For the first time in a long time, Castiel wonders if Dean is alright.

* * *

They're quiet for a long time.

Castiel never lets Dean out of his eyeline, despite giving him ample space, worried that the man might, in some way, need him. And Dean feels Castiel staying close, keeping watch. Where it might have irritated him in the past, now he is glad for it. He is appreciative of the angel's way of subtly tending to him.

It gives him the time he needs to get his thoughts in order.

A small ways down the bank Castiel tends to a broken bow, (his new weapon of choice, finding it tactically advantageous) whilst Dean was crouched on the riverbed, his hefty, recently-aqcuired broadsword glimmering in the clear stream, resting against the smooth stones at the shallow bed of the river.

What feels like years of silent friendship between he and Castiel has left Dean woefully out of touch conversationally speaking. The thought of forming words is almost baffling, the skill has not been needed. It takes him a long time to make his voice work, and when it finally does (though it's scratchy and unpredictable in his throat) his words come out more blatant and honest than they ever had before, all veiling and polite tact left by the wayside along with earthly instincts like holding doors open for ladies and covering your mouth when you cough.

"I scared you," Dean states. Castiel stares at him, his eyes narrowed, blue and hard, his face giving nothing away. "What I did to it..." Dean attempts to clarify, "I lost control. It scared you."

Castiel looks down at the stream, kicking over the blade with his shoe absently, thinking. Then he looks up at Dean and states, very solidly, "I killed legions of my own brothers. Countless humans. I betrayed your brother, almost to death."

Dean's jaw tightens, Castiel never breaks eye contact.

"I know what it is, to scare yourself."

Dean looks down sadly and there is a long moment of silence between them.

"You didn't scare me," Castiel admits, "I grieve for you, having scared yourself."

Dean takes this in. "I'm still sorry," he barely scratches out, not looking up. And they both know it's about more than losing control, it's a blanket apology, long-needed, and finally offered.

Castiel sighs, "I will always be sorry."

Dean looks up, seeing the depth of the truth in that statement, and feels in his own soul the weight of Castiel's regret. Suddenly Dean surprises himself by saying something he never intended to, "I can feel it."

Castiel's brow furrows ever so slightly.

"I know, Cas. I know how sorry you are. I can feel it."

Out of some half-acknowledged habit Dean presses his palms to his own abdomen, where he can feel the throb of Castiel's guilt, Castiel's regret - the center of where he can feel everything Castiel feels.

It is as much acknowledgement as Castiel needs - Dean knowing that he was sorry, that he felt genuine pain over everything he'd done. His eyebrows knit together and he looks down, away from Dean. When Dean reaches over and tentatively presses his palm, warm and steady to Castiel's chest, the angel feels a sob building in his chest. It bubbled and pressed upward until Castiel almost couldn't take it, but he refused to let it out.

* * *

Somewhere along the line they had started a borderline violent tit for tat. The long walks through the woods left Dean with too much time to think, and he loathed to let his mind wander to any earthly troubles he might've had. That's how it starts. Fearing his memories will all come back in the long stretch between violence, Dean jogs up behind Castiel who had been walking almost a half mile ahead. He reaches forward and shoves Castiel sharply at the shoulderblade. The angel turns, first confused, ready to fight, until he registers the playful smirk on Dean's face.

Since then there had been a status quo of roughhousing to fill the time. It is bizarre not only in how utterly unnecessary the play-fights were, but in how instinctually they would happen every time. It was an almost brotherly exchange... but distinctly not.

Dean found it addictive. Something dark and hungry was growing deep in his gut, blossoming further every time they touched. And he was desperate for more. He wanted them to fight, until one of them was inside the other. Taking. Owning. And the other had to feel being taken. Had to give in. Dean didn't know which he wanted more - to take, or to allow being taken. In some ways, he wanted more than anything to be utterly _owned_. It was a wild abandon that he knew, rationally, his old self would balk at. Maybe even blush for. But there wasn't any time for that old self here, no place for the Dean with socialization or cultural identity. Here there were only momentary feelings, and actions, and the cold steely will not so much to just live, but to not let any fucking thing take you down. And Castiel was the only thing that he didn't want to destroy, and that didn't want to destroy him.

And sometimes the affection that he felt for his friend was almost overwhelming. Dean's willingness, his downright _want_ to do anything for him now was terrifying to some small part of his brain. Everything else in him just pushed him to go with only what he felt instinctually, not what he _thought_, what he _felt_.

The nature of the place made their interactions snappy and visceral, despite the slow quiet moments they shared beside the fire, until all Dean wanted was contact. Long, drawn out, entirely intentional contact. He was desperate for it, like he never had been before. He knows he would never be so basic and needy on earth. There was a time he loathed to seem desperate. But that didn't matter now. All he knew anymore was what he wanted, in the moment. He wanted to grab the angel hard, to pull at him and bruise him, and see what Castiel would do in return. Because he wants bruises of his own. Ones to be fond of, to carry around mixed-in with all of the others that paint a story of pain and violence and being crushed under the weight of unfair responsibility, and being let down over and over again. He wants them to let loose on each other, knowing they would never truly hurt each other. Cas is the only one he could do this with.

The depth of Dean's want left him without a rational thought in his head whenever he would get close to the angel.

In the end, the progression of their profound bond to... _this_, seemed utterly inevitable. So much so, that Dean wasn't sure why it hadn't happened sooner.

The moment he finally touched him, there was no doubt.

They had made themselves a safe place, at the top of a hill with good sight-lines for miles. Taking it from the nest of creatures who had been there first was easy - they fought slow, and brutish. They were easily out-maneuvered and overtaken by a duo as fast and deadly as Dean and Cas. When they were done they pushed the bodies off of the cliff-face and watched them fall down, like nightmarish rag-dolls.

It was as good a warning as any to other monsters capable of higher thought who might want to reclaim the land.

Dean and Cas both knew, they would be safe for a small while. It was a rare luxury.

Castiel went to start a fire for their temporary home. He tossed Dean the machete, now dripping with blood, and he noticed immediately the familiar feral glint in the man's eye. His stomach twisted and curdled at the sight, and if he were still in the world he might have been ashamed to say it was a good burn. But he wasn't in the world anymore. So he stared and took in the look of Dean, the shameless way of him, and he let it make him want.

When Dean walked up close to Castiel, the angel readied himself for anything Dean might start. Dean shoved the machete back to him, slamming its handle against Castiel's chest. Castiel of course did not flinch, which he noticed made Dean smirk further, and wet his bottom lip with his tongue. Castiel tracked the movement with hawk-like eyes as though his life depended on it.

This tension he'd been feeling between them, it wasn't like what they'd had before. It wasn't like the awkwardness of the real world, where friendship and honesty was a struggle, though they both wanted so much to just be simple men, good friends.

Here, things were somehow both less complicated, and more complex. And the complexity of what he felt for Dean was at its pinnacle. Yet their lives were boiled down to this - kill or be killed. Fight to survive, fight for each other's survival. No more past, no more betrayal or dishonesty. There was no room for it. And Castiel was sick to admit he was relieved. He had been so ashamed of his fall, of his pride and hurtful actions toward both his brethren and his only true brothers, the Winchesters.

That's what Dean and Sam were to him, really.

Perhaps then it should have been strange to feel his blood racing at the feeling of Deans fist, hard against his chest, pressing the handle of the machete to him, and the challenge in his eyes. But Castiel had so wanted touch that wasn't aimed to kill him... Emmanuel and his wife had been long ago, and when he thinks back, it seems... unsatisfying. Not entirely honest, for so many reasons. And if there's one thing he can say about Dean and Purgatory, it's that it's honest.

He shoves Dean at the chest, unable not to rise to the taunt, seeing him stumble back, and his heart throbbing feeling that somehow he's getting closer to that satisfaction he seeks.

Dean throws down the machete into the blood-soaked mud, letting it stand there, perpendicular to the ground, and steps forward to Castiel with mission. Castiel's shoulders harden as he squares them to Dean, ready.

When Dean lunges, he telegraphs the movement so obviously that Casiel knows Dean is doing so on purpose, and it makes a tight knot in his stomach to wonder if Dean wants him to win. He dodges Dean easily and uses the man's weight against him to bring him down to the ground, hard, on his back.

For a moment, Dean is pinned, and Castiel's eyes are dark and intent, his face twisting into a shadow of a smirk despite the effort of keeping a fighting Dean down in the mud.

The weight of Castiel, straddling Dean's torso is simply too tempting. With no thought to what it would mean, Dean rolls his hips upward; Castiel's eyes go wide, his face blank, and he looks blatantly down to where their bodies meet.

Dean uses Castiel's obvious distraction to turn the tables, flipping him roughly down against the ground with a laugh at his expense, and pinning him down. He laughs again when Cas' face goes angry and flushed with embarrassment.

Castiel loathes to think he was that easily undone.

Dean's laughter is frustrating - both beautiful, cherished by the angel in a way he dare not explain out loud, and extremely enraging for its obvious, petulant note of _ha ha, I win_. He employs Dean's own tactics in an attempt to regain the upper-hand, and bucks his hips up against Dean's body.

It does serve to distract the man, stuttering his laughter mid-breath into a sharp groan. However it also has the effect of distracting Castiel himself, to the point where he forgets to fight.

Dean looks at him with sharp eyes, predatory, and Castiel can't bear to flinch or cower - he isn't scared. Dean's eyes are dark and his lips parted and Castiel can't help himself. He rolls his hips again, slowly this time, watching Dean with the sharpest focus he can muster. He wants to see what it will do to him.

Dean's eyelids flutter briefly, his face turning toward the sky, before he seems to regain his composure, coming back to himself enough to freeze Castiel where he lays with a fiery look. Dean adjusts his weight, and begins to rock atop Castiel. And the angel has a split second to know that this would never have happened, never been so _easy_, if they were home in the real world - but the thought is blown away like dust when Dean leans forward, planting his elbows in the mud on either side of Castiel's head, leaning down so close. He's crowding him, arousing him, writhing on top of him and taking up all of his personal space, and Castiel knows it is a challenge. In the purest sense. He rolls his hips up to meet Dean's in response, and finds they make an unforgettable friction.

Dean fists his hand in Castiel's hair, too tight, and slams his head down into the mud, pulling until Castiel's neck is long and exposed and letting the wince in Castiel's face make his dick jump.

He lowers his mouth hungrily to the pale skin of his throat, biting, hard. And he is rewarded by a particularly sudden jerk of Castiel's pelvis, and the angel's hands fisting hard at his back.

Dean loves it, more than he can remember loving any sensation on earth, and he wants more - more _fight_. He reached back and took Castiel's wrists in his hands, pinning them into the mud. He changed his position, kneed roughly between Castiel's thighs and pressed down on his pelvis with his own. The growl the angel let out left Dean in a gasp so deep that he closed his eyes and felt his bones go a little weak.

Castiel takes advantage, slipping his wrists loose and fisting both hands roughly in Dean's hair, pulling his head back mercilessly as was done to him, and finally understanding the pleasure from that side of the action when Dean grunted in surprise, wincing, and letting the expanse of his throat be exposed to Castiel.

Dean feels the iron grip of one hand go to the back of his neck as those wide pink lips went to his throat, followed by sharp white teeth.

In the moment Castiel can feel Dean scrambling, for _more_, slipping one leg desperately up until it's brushing the outside of Castiel's hip, and Castiel can feel his thigh between Dean's.

Castiel bucks up into him hard, with such force behind it that he jerks Dean's body forward every time, and Dean lets out a haggard little breath. Castiel grips him hard at the ass, pulling his pelvis down hard onto himself, and Dean plants his hands firmly in the moss on either side of Castiel's head, giving himself the leverege to thrust down against Castiel mercilessly.

They both like how it feels, Castiel rough and demanding, Dean heavy and smooth. It's perfect. So much so that Dean forgets that they haven't done this before, and then when he remembers, he can't remember _why_ they haven't.

When Dean is about to come he groans long and hard and Castiel feels the rush of what's coming make him insensibly wanton until he's biting his lip and bucking up into Dean double-time. He shakes, and goes silent as he comes, feeling Dean jerk and hearing him groan. Until they're both spent and trembling. They don't dare collapse, like they might've if they were in the world, in a bed. They just stay still, poised, catching their breath, trying to work their bodies down off of the ledge of post-orgasmal bliss and back into working order faster than they're used to.

When Castiel feels like he can almost be useful again he starts flexing his hands into fists, and relaxing them again, doing the same with his breathing - in and out, slow, until he almost seems untouched.

Dean rolls off of him, still panting, and gets up, facing away from him. He stands on shaky legs and turns to reach down for Cas, offering him a hand. Castiel takes it and Dean hefts him upright before walking away, plucking the machete out of the mud as he goes.

Castiel turns and began gathering kindling.

* * *

The quiet was normal for them. They hardly spoke as it was. But still, something intangible had changed. They were different now, even if they functioned the same - starting a fire, setting up camp, checking the perimeter, setting up traps. In all of the outwardly noticeable ways, nothing had changed.

But they both knew better. Dean certainly knew that the hunger he'd let take him over once was slowly, moment by moment, filling up his whole body. Castiel knew that were he somewhere else, he might feel shame - a soldier of God, laid low in the dirt, writhed upon by some sinful mortal man. Made to soil himself in pleasure, in a land of damned monsters, moaning even as their blood seeped into the mud beneath him. He should have begged God's forgiveness. But he didn't. God didn't have any place here. Neither did shame. Neither did regret.

Here, where only a small while ago there was only the will to survive, now there is just the hunger. To have Dean again.

And why not?

Dean looked at Castiel from across the fire, his eyes dark, his throat working, seeming to feel the roiling heat of Castiel's thoughts. Castiel knew what Dean wanted. What they both wanted. And the angel had never been so relieved in his existence, because Heaven help him, he wanted it too.

He got up, standing for a moment in consideration before walking over to Dean and standing before him, the sight of the man looking up at him from the ground stirring something inside. He kicked at Dean's shoulder, not rough, just hard enough to tip the man back, Dean played along. He laid back against the moss, and Castiel knelt at his knees, wondering if he would be met with resistance on his next move, and surprised when he parted Dean's knees widely, and was not. He slid forward and laid down on top of Dean, resting between his thighs. He could feel Dean's chest heaving beneath his own. He yanked on the collar of Dean's shirt, exposing his collar bone and setting to work there, biting and sucking. He could feel Dean's shaking hands come up and thread through the hair at the back of his head.

Castiel travelled up Dean's throat, knowing what he wanted, and not afraid to try and get it. He let his lips hover over Dean's, and there was a long moment where it seemed Dean was working it all out in his mind, where he weighed the difference between he and Cas using each other to get off, and he and Cas kissing.

Castiel had no intention of not being kissed, but he let Dean's mind work, finding its paths winding and fascinating as always.

Dean smirked up at him suddenly, and Castiel's heart banged for it. Dean came forward, all teeth, nipping at him sharply but playfully, apparently having found that roughhousing was an easy enough excuse to take the next step.

Castiel wonders briefly if that was its function all along.

He played along, chasing Dean's lips, nipping back, until he couldn't stand it anymore and crashed his lips down against Dean's. Immediately they slotted together, open-mouthed, tongues fighting for dominance, and it was as though they'd been doing this all their lives.

Castiel can't remember it ever feeling so good, so right, with anyone else. Neither can Dean, which says significantly more, due to his massive numbers in previous experience.

Castiel is hungry and relentless and Dean is strong and smooth, practiced. Their disorganized passion made for a kind of addictive chaos.

They don't have time to get naked - it wouldn't be safe. It would leave them vulnerable, and the chances of them getting caught literally with their pants down by some unnamed monstrous creature who wanted nothing more than to rip them to shreds were far too high for either of them to be careless about it. So no, they didn't have time to get naked. They just rutted and grabbed until they felt the only pleasure left in this world, leaving them shaky and grunting. Utterly tangled together.

They were content with it.

* * *

Contact wasn't so hard to come by after that. The hurdle had been jumped. They touched, freely and easily. They played, between killings. Shoving playfully and smiling when one caught the other off guard. Trees were good for hiding behind to jump out, or to race climbing up. Mossy earth was good for tackling or wrestling. Lukewarm swamp water was good for splashing.

They never spoke, but their smiles were honest and simple, and that spoke volumes. Dean knew, that no one had ever known him like Cas. And he knew that Castiel felt the same.

Purgatory was becoming the only place where they had ever existed on the bare bones of their personalities. The only place where they were inhibition-less.

It was an Eden for violent men.

* * *

_It's a long one. But hopefully that makes up some for the outrageous wait._

_Reviews are much needed love for my brain, she's been having a rough time._


	6. Chapter 6

_I know, I know - I suck. Again, I am **so sorry** for the lengthy wait. Don't you just hate when real life gets in the way of writing your homoerotic online fiction?_

_Anyways, I had fun writing this chapter, so I really hope you like it. Didn't have too much time for the editing process, so please excuse any misspellings. Thanks so much to all you guys sticking with this story. We're _so_ not done... __I've got solid ideas for where we're going next. And I feel a lot of sex coming on in future chapters._

_I should really re-think that sentence..._

_As always, reviews are appreciated greatly. Let me know how you think it's coming along._

* * *

Chapter Six

They'd touched countless times. Dean wouldn't call it making love, neither would Cas, though he isn't sure he understands the difference. But it feels good, and it makes life bearable. More than that, they find that they look forward to it.

Dean sometimes weighs his memories of the real world, fuzzy and distant though they are at this point, against those of him and Cas here, and he finds that Castiel stands very well against them.

He barely misses the world, with Castiel's pale throat under his tongue. He barely remembers his life, with the angel's rough hands, still impossibly strong somehow, pulling at his hair or back.

When Castiel half-smiles up at him, pink-cheeked and already spent, as Dean furiously chases his own release, Dean wonders if maybe they're wrong, maybe they've been wrong all along, maybe this is Heaven. A really weird, violent corner of heaven - Heaven's monster-broom-closet - and they just got stuck in it.

Of course, Dean had always imagined (and experienced) Heaven to have less pain. His wounds heal slow and sloppy here, as if the physics of the place doesn't quite know how to enable any kind of regeneration. It's a stagnant place, static, full of pain and stasis. And every time Dean or Cas catches the swipe of a claw, or the swing of a blade, they know they'll be paying for it dearly. It forces them to fight smarter.

But still, they are two against thousands. And sometimes sheer numbers take them down. They have, both of them, been on the wrong side of capture and torture more than once. Usually at the hands of some ancient tribe of hateful, hungry creatures they are yet to understand.

When a particularly spiteful gang of ghouls manages to get ahold of Dean, strapping him to pegs hammered into the ground and taking ceremonial and long-awaited tastes of his blood, the first human blood they've tasted in ages, Castiel rips through them at a speed so vengeful, so righteously wrathful, that Dean's dizzy brain can only assume he is all powerful again, Heaven at his back.

Of course, that isn't true. It appears Heaven has long since abandoned Castiel.

Dean's not sure if he can blame them, and he knows Castiel feels the same - forever guilt-ridden over his previous behavior, and looking for a way to pay penance. Purgatory suits them both, if that is to be its function.

Not long after the ghouls, a group of lower-level Leviathan sniff out the trail of the angel they rode to earth, ambushing Castiel as he gathers wood. He puts up a valiant fight against four creatures who may as well be invincible, but ultimately is taken.

Dean searches and searches for him, sensing that something is wrong, his panic burning away into rage with a frightening intensity as he screams internally that he never should have let him out of his sight. Then he screams out loud - unintelligible, haunting sounds of war-to-come into the endless woods, hoping that whoever took his angel knows what they've done. He hopes they know, how bad it's going to end for them.

And then he hunts.

What he's good at, what he's made for. And when he finds Castiel, tied, with his back against a bloodied tree-trunk, barely alive... he doesn't rush in. He can't afford to.

One by one he picks them off, taking the heads so that the bodies will languish, until there is one left, its hand around Castiel's throat, screaming out to the trees to the invisible threat, that he'll _fucking do it_, he'll _eat the angel alive, piece by piece, make it last_.

He doesn't know how wrong he is, until he casts a glance at his bloody prisoner, half alive, and somehow... smirking. Castiel is _smiling_ at him, a wicked thing of bloody teeth and darkly glinting eyes, and the Leviathan knows -

Dean Winchester is right behind him.

Dean cut Castiel down, laid him in a secret culvert by the riverside with a knife in hand, just in case anything should find him before Dean returned, and then went back to bury the heads. By the time the bodies found them, _if_ they found them, Dean and Cas would either be dead or ready to fight again.

Castiel is bloody, in need of cleansing and bandaging, his pale skin smudged and lined with still-wet rivulets of blood. Dean has an irrational urge to lick him clean, to devote time to the process with his mouth, maybe as a way of saying how desperately glad he is that he found him alive, that he is back with him now. The sudden urge to subjugate himself to Castiel, like a slave, like some kind of devoted animal, as a means of expressing his affection, is almost overwhelming. Castiel feels that want, and wants it too, but resists. And Dean is glad he does, if only to hold on to a small piece of his humanity. Castiel instead indulges Dean by appreciating him drying his newly cleaned skin by mouthing off the water droplets with sweet human lips.

Of all the times he's been made whole, nothing had ever made Castiel appreciate being healed like the soft press of Dean's lips, the freckled man's eyelashes tickling his bruised and torn skin.

Castiel felt a white-hot blasphemy in his gut at the thought that Dean made him feel like a forrest deity being worshipped, and it was blissful. Dean never gave him the upper hand; even though he has always known Castiel's strength, he has always denied him the acknowledgement of being what he is - almost impossible for a mere mortal to beat. And now, that all of that is blatantly, degradingly taken away from him, here is Dean kneeling in the dirt, brushing his face to the skin over Castiel's ribs. Castiel feels more powerful than he ever has.

Maybe he never needed to be God to fill the aching void in his chest. Maybe all he needed was occasional, temporary dominion over one man. This man.

Somewhere in Dean's mind, he hears, and agrees.

Somewhere in the both of them, they regret not knowing sooner.

* * *

It took a long time for Cas to get back to working order. And it made things harder. They moved slower, they needed more - more water, more sleep, more bandages. And Castiel was filled with the unsettling feeling that he was holding Dean back, that he was going to be the cause of him getting killed. When things got too dicey, he wished, for Dean's sake, that the man would leave him behind and run fast, protect himself. But those thoughts angered Dean, made him almost crazy with frustration until Castiel had to hold him steady, press his palm to the back of Dean's neck and hold him tight and steady about his middle so as to calm him before he shook himself apart with angry shivers and fidgets and grunts that had long since ceased to be words.

There was a long time, or so it felt, of Dean tending to Castiel, and the angel realized, slowly but without doubt, that there was a part of Dean that enjoyed it. That at heart, Dean had always been a caregiver.

Sam had never known a mother as Dean had, and missed her so. And Castiel could see Mary, shining through in her son in those quiet moments of steadfast dedication, where Dean took absolute care of him as though it were nothing. As though it were expected.

Loyalty, strength, Castiel expects. But tenderness - soft touches and painstaking, quiet devotion? Those are a surprise. One that keeps Castiel's mind swimming, his own devotion burning hotter and hotter.

* * *

There is a quiet stretch, maybe before Castiel is taken by the Leviathan, maybe long after (neither can remember anymore) where Dean uses his voice again. He desires to tell Castiel something that he hasn't been able to get across simply by feeling it, by letting Castiel feel it through him. It was something... confusing, but absolute. It required words.

Dean thinks for a long time, about what to say, about how to say it. All the while Castiel is staring at him, trying to understand, but not asking because he can tell that Dean is struggling, that he needs time with his thoughts.

Castiel is sitting on a felled log, sharpening his wooden stakes, brow furrowed, eyes focused on his hands at work, mind a million miles away. Dean watches him, his heart thudding uncharacteristically in his chest, because he has made his decision. He has chosen his words, few and disorganized though they may be, and he is ready to talk.

He fixes his war-face in place, more nervous than he has been, even in a fight, for as long as he can remember, and walks purposefully over to Castiel, dropping down beside him and picking up a dull stone-knife. He makes a move to assist in sharpening and his sudden proximity pulls Castiel from his thoughts. The angel looks at him expectantly, and Dean's brow furrows.

"I 'member," he starts gruffly, not looking up, "what ya done for me."

Castiel's expression stays constant and even.

"When I was dead, I... I weren't gone," he drawls, wondering at the way his south-western twang has muddled and thickened in his throat. For a minute he wants to laugh - he sounds like a mixture of his Dad, and Bobby. He clears his throat, and tries to remember how his own voice should sound. "There was nothin', for a long time. And then..." Dean swallows thickly, "and then there was you." He looks up, almost as if to make sure the angel is still there, checking to see if Castiel has any understanding of him yet. And the angel's eyes are fixed on him like ice - not cold, just strong, blue, obviously waiting.

Dean looks down at the stone-knife, gathering his thoughts.

"Everything ached. Then it just... went black. And I was stuck, for a long time. In that... nothin'. Then... then you were there. I could feel you."

Castiel's head tilts.

"I could feel you trying to bring me back, trying to keep me. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't hardly think. But I knew you was holdin' me. I knew you were... givin' me a part of you."

"My Grace," Castiel wonders quietly, superhuman eyes still remarkably fixed on Dean.

Dean notices that Cas' voice comes out, clear as a bell. He laughs a small laugh, not looking at him. Then he nods, and goes serious again.

"Grace..." he thought hard for a moment, "was burning me up, from the inside. But... but it felt... so good."

It was Castiel's turn to swallow hard. His fists clenched to keep himself together because he couldn't remember at what point his hands started shaking.

"It filled me all up, and I felt, bright and hot and strong, and... awake. But I knew," he shakes his head, "I knew it was hurtin' you. I could feel it Cas. All the light, _going_. Leaving you."

Castiel was unaware of his brows drawing together.

Dean looked up at him then, "I couldn't let that happen. I didn' want you to..." His words lost steam and he couldn't say it. And for a moment, it looked as though he intended to clam-up, be done with talking. Castiel couldn't stand the thought of Dean going silent on him now - not now. There was more, he knew it. He twitched, infinitesimally closer to him.

"I tried to... give it back," Dean admits, his eyes focused on the ground below him, as if trying to remember back to the moment. "Don' get me wrong, I wanted to live," he jokes suddenly, and it almost sounds like him - almost. "But, not if it meant you dyin'."

Castiel stares at the man, unable to make a sound, unable to thank him, or be angry for giving back a gift, or even muster a _wow_. He simply stared, momentarily immobile, something happinging inside of him, a riot, that he did not understand.

Castiel's hands came shakily to his abdomen, just under his chest, and touched there lightly as he looked down at his own body as though he'd never seen it before. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched. And suddenly, Castiel understood.

In his panic to keep from taking from Castiel that which he could not truly live without, Dean had forced it back on him. Offering his own salvation, for Castiel's. Castiel could feel it now, his remaining wisps of Grace, tinged with Dean's own essence, inside. And it was all very...

Overwhelming.

No one had ever died for Castiel. No one had ever been willing. He was the soldier, the divine vessel of the Lord's Host. And he had only ever known that he was meant to fight, to give himself for the cause because that was what he was built for. But no one had ever, in millions of years, fallen on their sword for _him_.

And here is this man, dirty, violent, mortal and utterly flawed. Beautiful. This man who gave, when he himself had nothing, and had not allowed Castiel to martyr. Had returned his grace, simply knowing it belonged with the angel, and given, along with it... something else. Something Castiel could feel now attached to every spec of his own Grace. Something uniquely Dean.

"My soul..." Dean whispered, eyebrows furrowed, eyes boring into Cas.

Castiel swallowed thickly again. So now they both understood. A piece of each, in both.

It was too much, too much for Castiel - the truth of it. What it might mean. The vulnerability in Dean's face. He looks down, face going stern, and with a shaky voice reprimands, "That was a very stupid thing to do, Dean. Unnecessarily dangerous."

Castiel tries to look frustrated, he tries to raise his eyebrows to seem lofty and put-out, but Dean can see through it. Of course he can. "Your willingness to put yourself in peril never ceases to amaze," Castiel frowns, but the bite of it is lost when Dean can hear the trembling of his voice.

The angel never puts into words all the things he's feeling. He couldn't. He doesn't know what he feels. He merely desperately keeps his footing, and tries to remain all-business. And that is so _Cas_, that Dean has to smile.

The next time they touch each other it's soft, and slow, trembling hands reaching inside of clothes to touch real skin, and Castiel can feel Dean wishing, for the first time in a long time, that they were home in the world. But only, so that Dean could have him for real, taking all the time he wanted, in a real bed. Safe, alone, like real people.

And Castiel feels the startlingly human emotion, of wanting to cry.

* * *

___Please Review._


	7. Chapter 7

_Because I don't believe for a hot damn second that Sam just wouldn't look for his brother._

* * *

Chapter Seven

Sam calls Death.

It's suicide. But he does it. Because Dean is worth it, and if he dies... well, hell, he's died before. Assuming he doesn't go to Hell again, dying will be no big deal. So he tries the only Hail Mary left in his brother's playbook, and he calls on Death himself.

He is taller than Sam remembers. And the room grows cold with his presence. His eyes, though lofty and disinterested, touch Sam with a kind of dread. Because he knows they were warned, never to do this again, never to bother him _or else_.

Sam shakes under the piercing weight of his stare.

"Did you reap my brother?" he asks with no preamble.

Death, either enjoying the tremble to Sam's voice, or simply finding their measly troubles laughable, gives a shadow of a smirk. "No."

"Then where is he?" Sam asks, feigning courage.

The creature, unnaturally still and hawk-like, stands unmoving, assessing Sam with dark, calculating eyes for a long moment.

"I should reap _you_," he states with a lazy kind of wonder.

"Where is my brother?" Sam asks again, undeterred by the threat of death.

Death smirks a little, huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking his head. "Dean," he starts, noticing how Sam's body perks up involuntarily at the name, "and his angel, the insolent little _brat_," the bitterness of their last encounter is somehow still fresh and his irritation with Castiel is evident, "are no longer on Earth."

Sam swallows hard.

"Nor are they in Heaven. Nor Hell."

"Then where the Hell are they?" Sam demands, terror creeping into his voice. "They didn't just get zapped to another dimension - this isn't Doctor Who!"

"I often wondered where you two ridiculous, rambunctious parasites would be if you didn't have someone leading you around by the finger all the while," Death insults lazily, in a tone that lets Sam know that he's going to have to figure it out himself. That he needs to calm down, and use his brain.

He takes a deep breath and tries to think. Don't be Dean, just rushing in all empty threats and cocked pistols. Be Sam, _think_.

And it comes to him.

"Purgatory."

"My my," Death almost smiles.

"But..." Sam's face falls, and he looks for all the world the most crestfallen, giant, little boy that ever lived. "How can I get him out of Purgatory? It took a ridiculous ritual just to open that door once and it nearly killed us all -"

"The _How_, is not my concern. Granted, none of this is. Though... I find your infinitesimal melodrama somewhat... entertaining. Like watching ants struggle to carry a cup uphill."

And Sam knows it is the only reason he and Dean have survived their brushes with Death thus far. He also knows he's on the knife's edge of not being entertaining anymore.

"I've given you the _Where_. I think that's quite enough." And with that Death is gone. And Sam is in a room, alone, with the knowledge that his big brother is one man, alone, in Monsterland.

For a brief moment, he despairs. He gives up, for the knowledge that rescue is impossible.

A _brief_ moment. No longer.

Because when has _knowing_ something is impossible ever stopped a Winchester from doing it anyway?

* * *

___More to come._

_Also, thank you so much for the reviews of the previous chapter! "You're awesome." Keep 'em coming pretty please!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Ok, so I'm kind of ashamed at how this doesn't remotely further the plot I've set out for, but it's what came out when I put my fingers to the keyboard. So... here it is._

_(M rating.)_

* * *

Chapter Eight

There is always something there, a nuisance at this point, nothing more, watching them from the brush. But the sound of it, scurrying around, always just a mile behind them, perpetually tracking them, scratching through the leaves and snapping twigs and scrabbling against the stones, is driving Castiel to rage. He can always hear it.

Dean catches glimpses of it, here and there. But for the most part he is unconcerned. The thing is following, but not attacking. And seeing Castiel irritated is somewhat amusing. If only because Dean is not concerned that the follower, whatever it is, could ever really get the drop on them.

Even if Dean does eliminate their obvious advantage by placing his palms over Castiel's ears with a chuckle as they lay down in their earthen hole to rest. The angel's face is tight with frustration and Dean smiles, holding his hands snugly to Castiel's ears so that for once, the angel can get some sleep.

Right before his breath evens out and his face goes smooth, Castiel's hand comes up to cover Dean's, before sliding down for a limp hold on Dean's forearm. He sleeps soundly until Dean nudges him awake.

* * *

Castiel doesn't have to force Dean to eat anymore. And while the angel is relieved, there is a twinge of something inside him that is wary of Dean's returning appetite. Though he doesn't understand why, Castiel begins to wonder if Dean's willingness to tear the flesh off of monsters' bones with his teeth, like they were chicken wings, is a sign that he has failed the man further. That he has allowed Dean to change, for the worse, via his attempt to keep him alive.

He realizes, bittersweetly, that they have both acclimated to Purgatory. Quite well.

He wonders, were they to be rescued, if earth would be a relief, or completely overwhelming.

* * *

Dean can see everything.

He can see every soft, dark, near invisible hair on Castiel's body. He can discern between the different smudges of dirt and blood on his white scrubs. He can see a leaf shake with the phantom of a breeze... a mile away. Dean sees, and catalogues, so many things that he wonders if he's filling up his brain with it.

He sees the pulse throbbing in a rugaru's neck, the thing desperately hungry for his and Castiel's blood and meat. And his memory becomes full of things like that. Moments of battle, seemingly insignificant details, down to the bullets of sweat on an adversary's forehead. But the information, the memories, they are not a burden. They don't weigh down his mind the way such things had done before he came here. It is simply, another thing to know. Not so much _carry_, heavily and ruefully. But it's all simply... in there now. And he doesn't find the instant recall or the microscopic details bothersome.

Because he knows the plains of Castiel's face from a forrest away. He knows the sight of his muscles twitching or working smoothly under his skin, and he is so distinctly aware of their nuances that he knows, without any doubt, what each movement means. He knows which long empty gaze means the angel is listening very hard to something far away in the forrest and which means he is thinking about Heaven; which shudder in his thighs means they've run too far too fast on only adrenaline, and which means Dean is on the verge of completely taking him apart in the most absolute and intimate way; he knows which smiles are actually indicative of happiness.

It makes it easier, now that they don't often speak, now that their thoughts and emotions are so impossibly tangled that they don't know where one of them ends and the other begins, to keep the necessary divider between them mentally. He wants to look at the angel and really see him, so he does. He tries not to let the sight of him become so commonplace, as to not appreciate it. They don't have much to be thankful for here, so Dean doesn't want to forget a single good thing. Every moment he seems to find some new intricacy, even if from across the wood, that fascinates him, and he is appreciative that it is Castiel he is stuck here with - deep, unrelenting, complicated Castiel.

Anyone else would be boring at this point.

Hell, anyone else would probably be dead.

* * *

Castiel has grown addicted to their play. He loves to play with Dean, to fight him knowing neither wants the other to fail. He loves being free to touch him and simply see what happens. Cause and effect, of the most wonderful kind. Castiel has never before been afforded the opportunity to allow himself to have fun, to indulge. He has never known how to play. Or why it is done.

Now he understands it better than anything else in his life.

Play, simple touch, action and reaction, instinct - they all make sense.

Heaven, war, humanity, destiny, life - they are all irreparably complicated.

So now, Castiel just indulges in simplicity - playing around with the only other person who knows how it feels to have the weight of the world on your shoulders, to feel like everything has spun out of control and somehow it is your responsibility.

But Castiel's favorite moments, by far, more that the smiling, laughing, joking play, are those which turn into something of a challenge. A physical challenge, of attraction and dominance. They never touch skin to skin, aside from wayward lips on necks and clavicles and of course, other lips. But Dean is able to boil Castiel down to a quivering mess despite it, rutting against the angel with no apology for crudeness or need. Daring Cas to love it too, or daring him to try and not.

Castiel finds he often looses. If you can call Dean distracting him with touch and tease to the point where Castiel is brainless and easily manipulated _losing_. Dean counts it as a victory. The man takes definite pride in being able to throw Castiel off his game by being forward and blatant of a sudden.

But now Castiel can feel, that Dean is waiting for him to catch on. To know that he can do the same, take the initiative, and that he might like it.

It's an itch in his palms, a fire in his stomach, that reaches a head when he and Dean reach a flat, quiet part of forrest. Castiel does something that he rarely has the courage to - he instigates. He raises the dull, flat end of the spear he's been carrying for the past ten miles and uses it to nudge at the back of Dean's knee, causing the man's leg to buckle. Dean stumbles and clumsily struggles to regain his balance as he whirls around on the angel, who stands still, watching smugly.

Dean gives him a warning glare, but Castiel's lips just barely quirk up into a smirk. And just like that Dean is hot under the collar. He cracks his knuckles and the both of them take a step back from each other, circling around like dueling lions. Dean reaches into his coat and gets his own weapon, a rod of bones and a bladed tip. Castiel raises his eyebrows at the challenge, intrigued, but not at all intimidated.

Dean lunges first and Castiel sidesteps him easily - for all his strength and stamina, Dean is not stealthy in the slightest, and Castiel's sheer quickness leaves the man stumbling forward, Castiel using the blunt end of his spear to give him a good thwack on the ass.

Dean pops back upright, jaw tight, clearly livid.

Castiel twirls the spear, smirking, all confidence and smooth movement and Dean loves it. He knows the only time Castiel is truly graceful is in battle. The rest of the time, the angel's behavior is mostly awkward; odd, in that he is either unnaturally still, or moving uncomfortably. But never when he's got fight in his eyes - then he is all smooth and calculated and focused. And even though Dean would like very much to punch him, he cannot deny he is beautiful.

Dean lunges again and Castiel swipes, before Dean can defend, and knocks the spear hard enough against Dean's forearm to dislodge his weapon. It thuds to the ground and Castiel uses Dean's distraction to grab the man and force him around, off balance, until he is crashing back against Castiel, the angel's spear coming in tight across his test, knocking the wind out of him and caging him against Castiel's body.

Dean thrashes, but Castiel has the advantage, and restrains him, the spear held tight across Dean's chest.

Dean backs them both up, blindly, until they land, roughly, against a tree. Castiel lets out a huff from the impact and Dean smirks thinking he's gained the upper-hand. But his smugness is short-lived when he finds that Castiel's grip on the spear hasn't waned at all. Dean is all at once impressed and revved-up to fight. He struggles against Castiel's hold, unable to get proper leverage with his arms pinned so close to his body. Since there's no pushing the damn thing away, he tries another tactic, and presses harshly back against the angel, pinning him roughly against the tree and hopefully, battering him against it enough to get him to let up.

That does not happen.

What happens instead is that Dean pushes himself roughly back, and Castiel grunts, before hissing a breath in, sharply, between his teeth.

Dean stills immediately, mind racing, lips quirking into a wicked smirk because he knows that sound. And he presses back again, more slowly, against Castiel's body, and feels Castiel's length through his jeans, hard against his cleft.

Castiel hisses again, but cuts it off, and a series of half-formed jokes about spears and poking run through Dean's mind as he chuckles, pressing back against him. A better torture than slamming the angel's body against a tree trunk. Dean can feel Castiel pretending to be irritated by his crude humor, and it only makes him smile more widely. He pushes back with his hips, swiveling, chuckling at Castiel's half choked-down groan, even as his own blood starts racing, and zinging through his heart at a rapid pace.

He feels Cas pushing forward against him, desperate for friction, and every time the angel's hips surge forward, Dean pulls forward himself, so that full contact is constatly eluding the angel.

Castiel's grip on the spear tightens until Dean can see his knuckles go white, and he knows that the force of the thing is going to leave one hell of a bruise across his chest, but he doesn't care. He likes the way it feels.

He likes the feeling of being made to hold his place, Castiel using him to get off, the feeling of knowing that Castiel couldn't get any closer, unless... unless he were...

Castiel's breath hitches at the thought and Dean tenses for a moment, all his fire quelling for a moment of absolute panic. But that ends when a moment later the fire of his lust rears up double, and Dean's head falls back against Castiel's shoulder, his eyes staring upward at the fog eclipsing the tree-tops (there is no actual sky in this place, as far as he can see) as he presses back against the angel heavily.

Castiel rolls his hips against him steadily, a slow, rough rhythm that jostles Dean as though he were made of nothing. And there's no pleasure from it, per se, for Dean but he moans quietly anyhow - even if he's not sure why.

He hears Castiel growl something impossibly low, and his heart skips a beat, knowing the angel is on the cusp of that feeling Dean loves so much - that feeling he gets when he knows Castiel is about to shut off his mind, his all-knowing, all-calculating mind, and just _feel_. That rush when he knows the thinker has been told to sit down quietly in the corner and just enjoy himself, while the animal, the fighter, all instinct, all raw power and need, grabs hold of them both and takes over.

He isn't disappointed - Castiel growls again and kicks Deans boots out to spread his legs, putting the man off-balance, leaving him leaning heavily back against the angel, held tight to him, Castiel's legs touching against the insides of his own. Then Castiel throws down the spear, and there is a brief second where Dean mourns the loss of that pressure, before the constricting hold of the wood is replaced by Castiel's arm. He holds Dean just as fiercely, as though afraid he might pull away, as if as close as they can physically get, it will never be close enough. And Dean's arm comes up to cover Castiel's, gripping Castiel's iron-clenched fist which is latched with a white-knuckle death-grip onto his jacket.

Castiel's other hand snakes around, palming Dean's groin tightly through his jeans, and Dean's knees go weak at the surprise contact.

Castiel continues to jerk against him, doesn't miss a beat, as he pops the button on Dean's jeans, ripping the zipper down before Dean has time to register fully what's happening. And then Cas' hand is inside his briefs, touching him, and Dean is shocked.

They never do this - they never touch like this.

Castiel pulls Dean's cock out and thumbs the head, and Dean all but shouts - Castiel bites the juncture of his neck and shoulder, to reprimand, but it only serves to pull another sound from the man, deep and shaky this time. Castiel's stubble scratches against Dean's neck.

Castiel brings his hand up and licks the palm before bringing it right back down to Dean, already throbbing and dripping; he wraps his hand around, spreading Dean's own slick, and sets to a punishing pace, tight and fast, that has Dean's thighs shaking.

Dean's fingers dig into Castiel's thigh and he knows, he's done for. He fucks into Castiel's hand, his hips jerking forward and then slamming backward into Castiel's own pant-clad thrusts again and again until his head snaps forward and his vision goes spotty and he's watching himself come all over his angel's hand. He's watching himself, come into Castiel's hand.

He feels' Castiel's hips stutter, his movements shuddering wildly, as he bites Dean's shoulder through his coat and shirts.

Then Castiel is heaving, just barely growling under his breath, shaking very hard with his forehead dropped to Dean's shoulder.

Dean lets out a groaning exhale, quiet and completely spent, and he smirks when he sees it ruffle Castiel's hair. He feels Castiel's tension, every muscle that was taut as a bow, start to soften and relax as his chest heaves against his back.

The angel's legs finally give out and he slumps, down the tree's trunk to the forrest floor, bringing Dean down with him in a tangle of useless limbs, Dean limp against Castiel's chest.

They sit for a long time.

They are quiet and rested by the time they think better of staying still for so long. Their breathing is evened out, their minds calmed, thoughts churning at a lazy, even pace.

Dean tucks himself back into his jeans, getting up wordlessly, wiping the dirt and brush off of himself as Castiel gets up and does the same. Dean can see, out of the corner of his eye, that Castiel's legs are still wobbly.

A twig snaps and Castiel's eyes jerk in the direction of the sound, but it is Dean who can see - the creature, the one that's been following them for some time. It never gets too close, but still, its presence, its unrelenting study of them, is unnerving. Dean stares it down, catching its eyes, and the thing turns tail to run, like always. Castiel sighs angrily, his dislike for the creature still burning strong.

They have to keep moving. They always do.

Castiel bends to pick up the spear, but before he is able, Dean hefts him upright and slams him back against the tree.

Castiel's eyes are large and so blue, and Dean's body buzzes with the thrill of having surprised him, not having been able to do that in so long. Not since all of their thoughts became shared, melted together. He surges forward and assaults Castiel's lips with his own, a harsh, _owning_ kiss that leaves the angel flush-cheeked and hazy-eyed.

Dean pulls away to look at his handiwork, licks his own bottom lip, smirking devilishly at the disheveled angel before shoving him back against the tree one more time, for good measure, and stepping away, leaving Castiel to follow.

Which he does, spear in hand, wiping his own bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and barely, just barely, smiling.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

It doesn't seem to matter how many drives he takes with the windows rolled down, the Impala always smells like Dean. It smells like Dean, and his father, and the childhood he regrets and the family he misses. Sometimes he turns on the mullet rock, just for a little while. It's usually not his style, but when he comes speeding into a new dusty little town, Impala rumbling without shame, blasting Bob Segar, catching the eye of some nice, pretty girl on the corner, it's almost like Dean is there. Sitting right next to him.

But he's not.

And Sam misses him. Crazily so, now that he knows Dean isn't dead so much as transplanted. Or at least he hopes Dean is still alive in Purgatory. The odds aren't great. But he tries not to think about that. He just... misses his big brother.

The empty motel rooms. The dinners for one. The cases he sees, but doesn't work, because he's got one of his own. That fucking car. All of it, everything in his life, reminds him of the gaping wound that is his brother's absence.

And all of it makes him want to put his fist through the wall, because _how_ _in the name of fucking **everything**_ is he supposed to get to Purgatory?


	10. Chapter 10

_Hey kids! Thanks so much for following this story and for you're awesome reviews. You guys make me giddy - like Dean rolling up to the Playboy Mansion, hands drumming on the steering wheel, kind of giddy._

* * *

Chapter Ten

It's not unusual for things to follow them. Dean imagines they must smell different. They smell like the world; the stench of mortality must follow them everywhere they go, making everything they meet insatiably hungry and, thankfully, dumb with lust at the scent of it.

He wonders absently, walking along through the brush, machete in hand, what Castiel must smell like to them. He regrets not having been able to smell the angel when he himself was a fresh vampire. Dean would wager that he is addictive, impossible to describe, bliss for the senses of any monster, having come straight from Heaven. Maybe he smells sweet and clean and impossible. Dizzying.

It's a shame not to know.

But he'll kill anything here that wants a closer sniff. And it seems like that's everything here. So hell, he'll kill them all. They don't get to know if he can't.

Dean also imagines, that the traces of earth that cling to he and Castiel must be waning with time. Things seem easier to sneak up on the longer they are here.

He almost caught the little shit that's been following them. Doubled back and caught it between he and Cas. But, the thing managed to get away.

Dean knows it won't be long now, before their little follower makes his move. The small ones, they're tricky - they move fast, and quiet. They don't talk or roar or make a scene. They come up on you, quiet like. Dean has no intention of letting this thing study him, so blatantly, to then turn around and eat him, or Cas.

For now the thing is scared. When it gets bold, Dean'll put it down. Or Cas will. Either way, it'll die.

* * *

Castiel is amazed at what he is willing to put up with, only for Dean. No one else in existence would ever have been allowed to infuriate him so frequently and live. But, as with everything, Dean is one of a kind in that respect.

Even now Castiel longs for his former power, if only to put the spoiled brat to sleep.

Dean flicks him for the unkind thought.

Castiel narrows his eyes to make the point. Dean shoots him a pretend-smile and Cas recognizes it - _the heartbreaker_, Dean had joked once, back in the world. Turned any girl into butter he claimed. Castiel pretends to be not as impressed.

Dean sneaks his hands further inside Castiel's shirt, up his sides.

Castiel himself doesn't dare move, due to the looming threat of the Leviathan rummaging around through their camp, mere feet away. He levels a glare at Dean that should have run his blood cold, but the man is unhindered.

They are laying in a stone culvert within the base of the great razor-sharp cliff-face, their hiding place being the only smooth part. And still, a small jut of stone poking into Castiel's back is leaving him wincing uncomfortably as Dean lounges relaxed and heavy between Cas' legs, as if there isn't a near-invincible murderer out for their blood just outside their closet-sized hideaway. He scratches is fingernails down the skin of Castiel's sides lightly, and Cas grips Dean's biceps to keep from making any sound.

Dean smiles as though he'd like to laugh.

Castiel reaches forward and places his hand around Dean's throat, none too kindly. Dean raises his eyebrows at him, but is otherwise undeterred. He flattens his palms against Castiel's skin, smoothing over the angel's abdomen, and sliding lower.

Castiel's hand is tight at Dean's throat as the man reaches first one finger inside his scrub pants, then two. Dean undoes the drawstring in a hurry before Castiel can stop him, staring at the angel with a wicked grin.

Dean starts slipping his hand inside, slowly, a taunt, and Castiel gives Dean's throat a squeeze. But Dean's eyes only glint with challenge, and that makes Castiel start to harden despite himself. He jolts the man by the throat a little bit, causing a sputtered grunt of surprise - It's a warning - Not now. Not here.

And they both freeze, listening to make sure the Leviathan didn't hear their sound.

When they are both convinced they weren't detected, Dean looks up at Castiel, feigning a reprimanding look, as if to _tisk tisk_ that it was his fault. Castiel's blood boils. But Dean simply flashes his teeth. A smile so sinful, Castiel wishes he were a painter, just so he could paint it over and over again for forever.

Castiel's other hand is holding one of Dean's wrists, but it is a small hindrance to the man, who Castiel assumes (correctly) has removed many an article of clothing one-handed.

Dean strokes him slowly and loosely, getting an infuriating amount of joy over Castiel's struggle to remain still and silent through the exquisite torture.

Castiel is just on the edge, just about to come, he just needs a little bit more...

But then there's nothing. He opens his eyes to see Dean's wolfish grin, obviously toying with him, obviously denying him, for his own amusement. He's leaning his chin to rest on his hands, simply watching Castiel as if to say,_ I'm sorry were you saying something?_ Too innocent. Too _not_ touching him.

Castiel's hand comes back to Dean's throat and Dean's eyes flutter a little bit at the pressure, something which Castiel realizes Dean knows will only make the angel suffer further with want. Then Dean smirks and brings his finger to his lips, miming for Castiel to _shh_.

Castiel's head thuds backward in frustration in place of the groan he can't let out, smacking against the smooth stone.

Dean winces and slithers up Castiel's body, placing his hand behind the angel's head in apology. He scrapes the stubble of his jaw over Castiel's cheek, sinking lower to scrape against his neck, the base of his throat, slipping his hand back inside the scrubs and finishing the job quick, getting Cas the relief he needs. He offers his hand to Castiel, the juncture of his thumb and forefinger, for the angel to hold between his teeth, to stifle himself. And he very intentionally does not reprimand Castiel for biting him.

* * *

They kill him together, the follower. He fights, but he's no match for them. After all the tracking and observation, Dean is somewhat disappointed in the ease of the fight. The thing does give Dean a good shiner though, and a split lip which Castiel appreciates the strangely magnetic aestheticism of. They burn the creature, not wanting it's dead flesh to bring any others calling. And they spend the night hidden away, mildly safe, Castiel tracing the darkened shapes and raised patterns of Dean's injuries with his fingertips. Dean winces, when Castiel touches his swollen lip, skin split, blood hardening over it, but he doesn't draw away. He merely closes his eyes, and feels the light touch.

* * *

There are things Castiel has hated no matter what state of mortality he is in. Namely, being made a fool of.

As an angel, he hates having one pulled over on him by his superiors, or worse, by humans. And now, in purgatory, he hates mortality. Not because he's afraid to die. He isn't. Part of him still believes he deserves that, and worse. He isn't afraid of pain, or emotion. No. What Castiel detests, is his own clumsiness.

As an angel he was impossibly fast, invincibly strong, and inhumanly smart. Now, he feels slow, weak and kind of like a jackass.

Castiel has never had to watch his step. Angelic instinct and knowledge kept him sure footed even if he was walking through fire, through battle, through space and time. Now he trips like an idiot walking through the forrest. It is despicable and it makes him livid. A damnable tree root surprises him as he's trudging along. Dean had told him, a million years ago it feels, to pick up his feet. But Castiel is tired and hot and distracted, and the root trips him up, sending him sprawling down a little leaf-covered slope and landing at the bottom dirty and bruised and off-balance.

He hears Dean coming along behind him, unconcerned. Dean goes to lift him up by the shoulder, and prideful Castiel shoves him off. He goes to get up from his knees on his own, and Dean knocks him down again before he can. Castiel falls clumsily back down to his knees and shoots Dean a look of fire and ice and impending payback. But Dean simply smirks down at him, his stance cocky, his eyes dangerous.

Castiel cannot deny, it is a startlingly nice look for the man.

Dean throws down his weapons and stands before Castiel, settling into his boots, looking like he plans to stand there for the foreseeable future. He reaches forwardpressing the pad of his thumb to Castiel's lip, smirking at the new dirt on his face thinking, sardonically, something akin to _how cute_. Castiel does not take kindly to being mocked. He bites Dean's thumb and Dean lets out a grunt; Castiel frankly is shocked the man didn't expect it.

Dean grips the hair at the top of Castiel's head hard, and wrenches back, leaving the angel wincing, the pale column of his throat vulnerable. Castiel's hands close over Dean's wrist in an instinctual reaction, even though his jaw sets, strong and unforgiving. Dean steps forward, bringing his body in close to the angel's prone form. Keeping his hold on Castiel's hair, he brings his other palm, rough against Castiel's soft skin, to drag over his neck and cheek, tracing the lines of his bones, and then the seam of his lips. Then, of a sudden, he releases. Castiel can see that his eyes have gone dark.

Dean's hands go easily to his own jeans, and he pops the button, lowering the zipper and reaching inside to pull himself out. And when he's standing there, towering over the angel with his half-hard cock out, Castiel looks up to meet his eyes, and sees the man looking down at him expectantly.

He knows what Dean wants. It's something he's never asked for before. Something Castiel himself has wanted, but not asked for. And he knows he shouldn't, he knows they're vulnerable here - visible, audible - but he wants it so badly, if only because he didn't expect it would ever happen. They've been good, about not getting carried away.

Well, _he's_ been good. Dean is incorrigible.

But hell, none of that matters because Castiel _wants to_ and Dean already knows it. And there is no deep debate about what it _means_, or whether it's _wrong_, whether they _shouldn't_. _Want_ is all that counts.

Castiel grips the base and wraps his lips around the head carefully, sinking onto Dean. Dean lets out a sound that Castiel is sure would be a curse, if Dean still talked.

Dean doesn't wait for Castiel to adjust. He clamps his hands into the hair at the back of Castiel's head, hard, and jerks forward, sliding deep into his mouth. The wet heat enveloping him almost up to the root. Castiel chokes, but it feels too good for Dean to be worried. He knows Cas is ok.

And he is. But for the obvious lack of concern Castiel digs his thumbs into Dean's hipbones until he can hear the man hiss and Dean doubles over a little, instinctually. Dean's hands loosen their grip and Castiel pulls off with an impressive _pop_.

Dean smacks his head playfully in retaliation and Castiel comes forward and bites the divot of Dean's hipbone none too gently, earning himself another hiss, sweeping over the soon to be bruise with his tongue.

In his mind, Castiel can feel Dean fretting about his obvious pension for biting and use of teeth. Castiel merely smirks up at him. He hasn't ever done this, but he knows a thing or two. His wife, from so long ago (he's almost forgotten her name actually) had done this to him. Only twice. It was seen as a sinful thing, to her. And it only happened that first time because she was feeling devilish and carried away, and the second, because she could feel _Emmanuel_ drifting, drifting away from her. Castiel can't help but think she was an odd creature, contradictory in nature - lust versus virtue.

Even then, deep down, he must have known there was more.

Castiel meets Dean's eyes again, seeing the man looks frustrated, brow furrowed oddly. He taps Castiel's cheek as if to say, _Stop thinking about her_. And Castiel bites the flat plane of Dean's hip once more, so that Dean knows he can't tell him what to do. And then he sucks him into his mouth, as much, as deep, as he can.

Dean groans, and his fingers thread through Castiel's hair, gently this time.

Castiel is new and unpracticed, not having much in the way of technique, but still it doesn't take long. Dean's twisted lust and objectification of the angel on his knees is enough to end it almost as soon as it starts. It feels to him like a twisted fantasy come true. And he knows it does to Cas too. It feels impossible and perfect and so good.

His hand fists in Cas' hair (not pushing or holding this time) and the other clamps on the angel's shoulder, Dean nearly doubling over as release hits him, and he juts up, shallow and quick, into Castiel's mouth. Castiel tastes him, swallows him, and feels oddly like this is something they _should_ do. Since they are already so much inside each other, possessing of each other's essence already anyway. It makes sense. And he wouldn't mind Dean returning the favor.

With all that going through his mind Dean starts to slow down, groan and exhale deeply, and Castiel knows he's done. He pulls off, almost regretfully, and wipes his hand over his mouth and chin and looks up at Dean.

Castiel expects him to smirk, and tuck himself back into his jeans and tug Castiel along to their next place.

But he doesn't.

Instead of smiling, he simply stares at Castiel, with wide, green eyes, focused and oddly innocent-seeming. Instead of pulling Cas up, Dean falls to his knees. And instead of carrying on, he pulls Castiel's lips to his own, kissing him fiercely, as though they had been apart for a long time, as though they might not get to do it again.

He presses his body into Castiel, suddenly needy, and runs his hands all over him, pulling him close by the back of his neck.

And when they finally pull apart, and Dean's eyes are trained on him, childlike in their wonder, as though he has never truly _seen_ Castiel before, Castiel is shocked to find that however much their essence has mingled,

Dean Winchester is still a beautiful mystery.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

When Sam is at his wit's end, he thinks of Bobby.

Maybe Bobby didn't go to Stanford - hell, Sam's not sure Bobby's got a high school diploma - but he was the smartest man they ever knew. And when Sam is at the end of his rope, when he thinks he's looked everywhere and there's nothing that's useful to him, he thinks of Bobby.

Sam closes his eyes and he imagines Bobby at his desk, untouched drink sitting nearby, seven different books open. He imagines the ink stains on Bobby's fingers, and the way he used to rub his brow when his eyes and mind were getting tired, and the way he never gave up on them. Ever. Even if he'd looked five times. He'd always look again. Just once more. Just in case. And Bobby would always come up with something.

Usually vague and insane and with very little chance of success, but anything is better than just surrendering.

And Bobby never surrendered. That crafty old sonofabitch never surrendered, not once.

And that's when it comes to him...

Bobby always knew that the best ideas, are usually the simplest.


	12. Chapter 12

_I've never posted so much in one week... _

_When it rains it pours._

_Thanks so much for the reviews! I appreciate so much. Now, for you, we continue..._

* * *

Chapter Twelve

Vampires are harder. Dean's never had much of a problem killing them, back in the world; but in a place like Purgatory, so vast and inhuman, neither Cas nor Dean can deny the inklings of humanity in the vampires. They used to be people once, like Dean. They still mostly look like people, they sound like people. They move and talk and fight like people.

So it's hard for Dean and Cas to stomach killing them.

For the most part, they leave the vampires alone. They come across a nest, or the trail of a vampire, and they turn back, or deviate. Not because they're afraid. No, they've taken down worse at this point. But because neither wants to look into a human face, human eyes, and watch the light dim. It's too hard. After so much time apart from the world, it's just too hard to kill the only thing left that looks like it.

But every once and awhile they come across a few vamps, stubborn and unstoppably high off the scent of live human blood, that just won't let the fight go. They hunt Cas and Dean, and then there is no choice. Kill or be killed. And sometimes, Dean hates it.

Because there is no victory in decapitating a twelve year old girl.

She's too young, too far removed, to see that she is so obviously outmatched. The intoxication of the scent of Dean's blood is too much, and she comes at them in a frenzy. And Dean tries to hold her off, he tries to fight her without killing her. Because even though she's not human anymore, he knows, that she must have been turned against her will - that she used to be somebody's little girl.

She bites him, drinks, too much too fast and Dean is dizzy and somehow still, hesitant to hurt her.

Castiel pulls her off of him and holds her tight from behind, trying to talk to her, trying to convince her to remember her humanity. And Dean loves him for it. For trying. For not being the guy who would have simply smote her and moved on.

But Dean knows it's over.

She fights her way out of Cas' hold and she wants him, Cas can see it, she wants to taste him too. She moves to attack, but before she can there is a sharp sound, a swiping blade, and a thud. And Castiel sees Dean standing over her body, jaw tight, looking like he wants to vomit.

When they bed down later, they hold onto each other tightly, neither sure who needs who more.

* * *

The girl and her nest (only two others who were quickly dispatched) were inhabiting a cave. And Dean and Cas both were pleased to see so, it having been a long time since they were able to stay in a cave. Mostly they have to burrow themselves into the dirt, beside felled trees, but always out in the elements. Out in that impossible weather - freezing cold ground and muggy hot air, or sometimes the reverse.

The prospect of sleeping somewhat indoors has Dean extremely pleased and Castiel ready to pass out.

But before he can nod off Dean flops down clumsily atop him, ignoring the angel's groan of irritation and instead dragging his body up the length of Castiel's until his lips meet the other man's throat.

Castiel wiggles as if to dislodge Dean and say _Not now_, but he is already smiling and Dean knows it. Dean places quick, playful pecks up Castiel's throat, over his adam's apple, up over his chin, and briefly wonders when they went from using each other to get off, to acting like lovers. But it's just a curiosity. It doesn't bother him. Cas held his soul in his hands, Dean's pretty sure Cas already knows he likes being _lovebirds_, even if he'd hate to say it. Dean kisses him teasingly, lowering his lips slowly to Castiel's, pressing down softly, teasing his lips open. Dean tilts his head artfully, sinking down, deepening the kiss, slowly and carefully, both men loving the languid slide of their tongues.

It feels right. Perfect. And neither can remember the time when it didn't, when this wasn't normal, when they weren't each other's everything. Dean actively refuses to remember. He likes it better this way, he thinks. Castiel under him or over him, either just content to be there or utterly demanding, holding or tracing fingers lightly. Sometimes Dean thinks he would like to give himself to the angel. Let him in, let him take him completely. Or maybe it's that Castiel wants to give himself to Dean... He isn't sure anymore. But either way, it's a good feeling. And they're in no rush.

For right now, Dean wants to kiss him.

Castiel runs his hands up the valley of Dean's back, shifting easily so that Dean can settle more comfortably between his legs. Second nature. Dean runs a palm over the outside of Castiel's scrub-clad thigh, and it's not needy or lustful. It's just comfortable. Familiar.

Dean is content to lie on top of Castiel and kiss him, slow and deep and undemanding, until he is ready to fall asleep. And Castiel is familiar with the thought, and is content with it himself, and with holding Dean as long as the man wants, until he sinks down against Cas' chests and sighs to sleep and Castiel keeps him there, hands skimming over his back and hair and shoulders and arms. He doesn't have to worry that Dean will mind. He knows he likes it, that it helps him sleep.

Dean huffs a small laugh against Castiel's lips, the angel's thoughts making him already sleepy, and Cas can't help but smile back, lips curving against Dean's.

Dean moves down to Castiel's neck, lips brushing his skin as though he isn't so much kissing him, but just feeling the way their skin meets.

Castiel's eyes are closed, his body lax and calm. Until he feels something that shouldn't be there. Something he hasn't felt in a long time. An inhuman sense... of warning.

The feeling nags at him, has him opening his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure it out. It's a cold feeling, a fine-pointed dread, deep inside him. So out of place when he is safe and warm on the cave floor with Dean on top of him. But the dread grows, until it is a physical pain - dull first, and then sharp and sudden.

The hair on the back of Dean's neck stands up. He feels Castiel tensing, reaches a hand down - but no, Castiel is still mostly soft. Something isn't right.

Castiel's head snaps up, his eyes going wide, and Dean looks into his face, seeing that it's all wrong. Castiel certainly isn't ready yet, he knows that much for sure. And the look in his eyes, it isn't pleasure... it's terror. Confusion. And as the moment carries on it tinges with pain, until Castiel's stare shifts to Dean's eyes, in panic. Dean knows that look from a long time ago - the desperate need to say something, before he gets shut down by a greater power.

Dean watches him closely, his own heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing to figure out what was wrong. He starts running his hands over him, lifting his clothes, looking for injury. But he finds none.

Blood he could've handled. _This_... he doesn't know what this is.

Suddenly Castiel writhes, his back arching up into Dean, and it is familiar, but it too is all wrong - his face is screwed up in pain, his fists clenching in Dean's clothes, a guttural scream barely being held back behind clenched teeth.

Dean clamors up onto his knees, Castiel writhing between them, veins bulging in pain, and Dean looks down at the angel at a complete loss. He places a hand behind Castiel's head, cradling where it is pressed back against the cave floor in his spasms.

Castiel's head snaps forward, a look of determination on the angel's face as he forces his shaking body to be still enough to look up at the the man.

"D-Dean -" is the beginning of a choked-out warning that Castiel never gets to finish.

Just then Dean feels an inhuman pressure in his gut, sudden, from nowhere, and he looks first down to his own body, pulling up his shirt, shocked to see nothing visibly wrong. Then he looks to Cas, whose eyes, Dean is terrified to see, are glassy and scared - as if he knows there is a terrible fate in store for them. As though he knows, but can no longer manage to say, what awful plague is upon them.

The pressure in Dean's gut builds until it is excruciating. It feels as though he will split in half, and he can't breathe because of it. He groans up to the ceiling, shaking hard, before his arms give out on him and collapses onto Castiel, who arches up again, screaming through his teeth. And Dean hates the sound more than any other thing he's ever heard - it shoots straight through the core of him.

He is helpless - he can't help him, and it's torture.

Dean feels then, something indescribable inside - as though he is being pulled, by his organs, in every direction.

He tries to stifle the groan of pain, and wraps himself around Castiel, not caring how it might seem - he has to anchor himself, he can't allow himself to be pulled from the angel.

Castiel makes a grunt that demands Dean look at him, and when he does he can see Castiel's ears bleeding, he is shaking severely, the vein in his forehead is bulging and his jaw is clenched. But his eyes...are soft. He looks at Dean as if is the last time.

Dean groans in pain as the pulling starts to tear him up inside - that's how it feels. He chokes, it makes a disturbing gurgling sound, and he tastes blood. He makes a desperate sound that at any other time he'd be ashamed of, and presses his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, gripping him tight. But even then he feels his strength failing him. He drags his head up to Castiel's and lets his face fall onto his, feeling that if these are their last moments, there is nothing wrong with making them right.

Dean screams inside his head, he screams at Castiel to hold on. Begs. And he feels Castiel's hands clench against his back as his own eyes squeeze shut with a final scream that he just can't stifle.

The pressure in his gut gives a final, excruciating pull, and jerks him away, rips him open, tearing him - heat floods his body, everything coming loose inside, and it burns him up, pierces his skull.

The hollowness of the silence that follows is enough to make Dean's eardrums feel like they are splitting open.

An emptiness so black and silent that he is left deaf and blind in it's wake - a void. He feels himself become so lost, so disoriented, that there is no up or down - no vision, no hearing, no gravity - just intense, prickling, pressure and pain.

So much so that he only barely registers the drop onto a solid surface.

The pain in his gut recedes slowly, and he gasps desperately in relief. He can hear himself breathing. He can feel his body, tingling, every sensation overwhelming as if he's never felt anything before, so none of it makes sense. All of it is so new that for a moment, it hurts.

He feels something cool and solid under his palms. He spreads his fingers out over it, finding the small movement borderline baffling. The transition from thought to action is confounding for his body. He presses down, trying to lift his weight, attempting to orient himself. But he can't figure which way is up. He feels so impossibly heavy...

He tries to open his eyes, wincing at the brightness, throwing one arm out in front of him in self defense. The leaden weight of the limb nearly tipping him forward. He hears breathing. Swallowing. Such shaky breathing -

"Dean...?"

His heart lurches - _impossible_.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The pain in his gut recedes slowly, and he gasps desperately in relief. He can hear himself breathing. He can feel his body, tingling, every sensation overwhelming as if he's never felt anything before, so none of it makes sense.

He feels something cool and solid under his palms. He spreads his fingers out over it, finding the small movement borderline baffling. He presses down, trying to lift his weight, attempting to orient himself. But he can't figure which way is up. He feels so impossibly heavy...

He tries to open his eyes, wincing at the brightness, throwing one arm out in front of him in self defense. The leaden weight of the limb nearly tipping him forward.

"Dean...?"

Dean's heart lurches -_ impossible._

No. His brain is scrambled. It must be. Because that's not possible.

His brother's voice. Sammy.

"_Dean_," Sam tries again to reach him, tentative and broken with emotion

Dean would like to answer, he feels a desperate need to, but he can't. His voice... he can't even fathom how to use it. His eyes won't focus, his whole body is shaking.

He isn't sure if any of it is real. He can just make out the shape of Sam coming toward him, crouching down in front of him, smiling and letting out a disbelieving laugh of relief.

"Welcome home man."

Home.

_Welcome home. _

Dean can't work it out - he doesn't know where he is.

But this is Sam. This is little Sammy, his little brother... Right? He's only ten, he needs him - No. No that's not right. He's a man now, isn't he?

But it's definitely him. Yes. Dean is sure it's Sam, though he doesn't know how. Instinct.

And Sam... his eyes are shining. He's... relieved.

But Dean doesn't share that relief. His blurry eyes scan the floor, his hands feeling what his useless vision can't take in. He reaches, leaning sorely over to his left, hands groping desperately over the dusty wood floor in search of anything - a swath of trench coat or scrubs, a hard limb, a touch of stubble or soft black hair...

Nothing.

Dean's hands start to shake. He mostly-blindly reaches over to the other side, searching more and more frantically, his unseeing eyes darting in every direction as he tries to squint through the haze.

He only partially registers Sam's voice in the background; it sounds concerned. He is asking Dean to look at him, but he can't. He is asking Dean what is wrong, and Dean can't say _Everything_. Sam is asking Dean what he is looking for... Dean can't imagine having to put it into words.

_Castiel_.

_Where is Castiel?_

The only thing he can scratch out, is a barely audible, _cah_ sound. But he isn't there. Dean knows it. He can _feel_ it.

Cas isn't there.

Dean has just enough time to register the horrible, nagging hollowness in his gut before everything starts to go dark, and he is pulled down into unconsciousness.

* * *

...

* * *

Dean wakes with a start, knowing subconsciously that he has been asleep too long - an hour or two is the max if you want to stay alive. And he feels rested, and that just isn't allowed in Purgatory.

In fact, the feeling is downright foreign. Forgotten, since he was about four. He begins to catalogue all of the sensations that feel somehow _wrong_.

The ground beneath him is too soft.

The forrest is too quiet.

The air is too clear - no oppressive humidity and smog.

He can't smell sweat, dirt, blood.

And he is too cold, feeling singular, no one curled at his side. And that is especially wrong. Startling even, once it evolves from a dim, amorphous dread into a fine pointed recognition of Castiel's absence.

No sooner does he start to move to find the angel, then he halts abruptly, wincing. His whole body is sore, as if every muscle was torn, and every bone bruised. He must grunt or something, because he can hear someone else turn and come closer.

When he finally opens his eyes, he cringes, throwing his hands up in front of his face.

Light - everywhere. Piercing and overwhelming. The brightness is terrifying. Pain shoots through his eyes, right into his skull, debilitating.

There is a sound of bustling, a familiar sound, heavy shoes on a dusty wooden floor, and then the room is darkened. Dean cracks open a blurry eye to see Sam pulling the last of the curtains shut, and slowly lowers his arms. That's when he notices the IV in his arm, the fact that he is laying on a bed, the fact that he is indoors, and he finally registers the fact that there is another _human being_ in the room with him.

That's when it finally hits him, and he knows, for sure, that it is real.

He is back in the world.

It takes a split-second for Dean to know, without any shred of doubt, that he has come back alone. He knows, like he knows left from right, that Castiel is gone. He thinks, momentarily, that he might die from the knowledge... but the moment passes, and he doesn't die.

He closes his eyes, fighting down the scream that's clawing its way up his throat. He holds it down, but he can't process the knowledge that Castiel is not here. So he ignores it. He focuses instead on what _is_ around him.

Everything feels different. A subtle tactile incongruity that he can't describe and doesn't understand. But he runs his fingertips over the tube connected to his arm, and to the arm itself, and things feel... different. Like he isn't making full contact. Or like he isn't taking in all the detail that he should be.

Small digits of code missing in the translation.

As his brain whirrs to full consciousness, Dean takes a moment to memorize his surroundings. It is a habit, started in childhood, cemented first by a lifetime in Hunting, and then titanium-enforced by his tour in Purgatory. The room is shabby, wide. Familiar in a way. Lots of windows, a good amount of open space. One bed, one arm chair, one table, three chairs. Doorway - hinges but no french doors attached to it's jamb as Dean assumes was intended. The hinges are even still there. There is a wide room beside this one, but he can't see. Food on the table. Gun on the table. And... he squints, thinks hard... a laptop.

There are sheets around him, disturbingly soft; his shirts are gone. There is a bedside table, with a... a... he knows - he knows he knows...

A telephone.

There are solid, painted walls around him, so startlingly flat and smooth and perfectly cornered. Dean realizes abstractly that they are in a box. A _room_, sure, but a room is a box.

You can't see what's coming from inside a box.

Finally his eyes find Sam again, standing awkward and nervous at the end of the bed, waiting for Dean to speak, or... something.

But he can't.

He looks at Sam for a long moment - there is so much he's forgotten.

Sam's eyebrows draw together, in either pity or worry, because Dean is looking at him, almost like he doesn't recognize him.

"Hey," Sam starts, very gently, quietly.

Dean simply stares, evenly and invasively, and it is so off-putting that Sam starts to feel his heart thudding nervously. Dean's never been one to stare. As much as is needed for macho, alpha male bullshit, yes. But he was always casually observant. The way he looks at Sam now, with such direct focus, is unsettling.

"It's ok," Sam tries, "it's me. It's Sam."

Dean doesn't respond. He simply continues to stare. He takes in every detail, his brain trying to stretch every minuscule one to meet the hazy memory that had tortured him in Purgatory. Standing before him his brother is tall, tanner than he remembers, long strong limbs hanging awkwardly as if he doesn't know what to do with them. He has golden brown skin, stretched over muscles and plains of bone - arms, hands, neck. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Sam's eyes are caring, honest. His hair is long, ends tucked behind his ears.

All of it is familiar. Abstractly familiar. But it doesn't quite line up.

Dean doesn't feel at ease.

Sam sighs, as if he'd forgotten to breathe, he looks close to tears. Dean doesn't blink.

"I've been looking for you a long time, big brother," Sam's voice goes deep, compensating for the need to cry.

Dean says nothing. For a moment, it's as though he hasn't even heard, his face doesn't change. But then, he tilts his head to the side slightly, still staring, unblinking.

And a shiver runs down Sam's spine.

* * *

Dean doesn't get up, but he won't lay down. He's in pain, recovering, but he won't relax. He won't close his eyes. Sam tells him that it's ok, that he's got his back and he'll watch out for him, but it doesn't make any difference. Dean doesn't like to stay still, he doesn't like to be vulnerable.

When Sam finally comes closer, to change Dean's IV, Dean pretends he is relaxed, but Sam can see his jaw flexing, his fists balled up the whole time. When Sam goes to check the needle site Dean's hand snaps around Sam's forearm like a bear-trap. Sam isn't expecting it. He looks up to Dean's eyes and sees they're trained on him sharply, and in that moment he knows his brother doesn't see him. Not really. Dean sees only a threat.

"It's ok," Sam tries quietly. "I'm just fixing you're IV."

Dean assesses him, his hand not loosening on Sam's arm.

"I'm just trying to help... _Dean_," he offers gently.

The use of his name makes Dean's eyebrows quirk, and he loosens his grip, letting go.

They coexist silently for the rest of the day, Sam noting how Dean keeps looking around the room. Eyes scanning every inch, every crevice. Every sound, and his eyes flash to it. Sam doesn't want to ask, because Dean is still barely... _Dean_, but he knows the look of waiting when he sees it. He can only assume that Dean is waiting for attack, for the nightmare things that must have hunted him in the past months to somehow find him again. And Sam gets that. But it doesn't make him worry less. Because sometimes Dean's eyes drift to the ceiling, as if he is looking beyond it, high into the sky, and thinking volumes and volumes of thoughts that only he can hear. Only then does Dean forget to be tense. After a few minutes, he comes back to himself. Realizes what he's been doing, and every muscle goes tight again.

* * *

Sam gives him something to make him sleep. The man is obviously exhausted, but won't allow himself to sleep. Sam can't stand to watch Dean struggle to stay awake, so he puts a little something into his IV, hoping Dean will just drift off for a little while. But Dean fights the pull of sleep all the way, until it finally takes him against his will and he slumps over in the bed as if he were dead, head lolled off to the side, body still half sitting up. Sam knows he's in pain. He's caught Dean wincing all day, every time he moves. And he knows if the poor guy sleeps like that he'll only hurt worse tomorrow. He sighs, hefting himself up from his chair and heading over to the bed. He pulls Dean down the mattress until he's lying properly, head on the pillow.

His brow has finally smoothed out, his body finally relaxed, and Sam is thankful. Dean's severe tension was even giving _him_ a headache. He can't help but smile though - Dean's first day back, and already, he was giving him a headache. Hadn't even said anything yet.

Sam looks down at Dean. Finally able to just, _look_ at him, and be happy he's back. He takes a minute to catalogue everything he hadn't dared to notice today, all the scrapes and cuts and bruises. Dean's covered in them. He's dirty too, which makes it hard to discern between injury and filth, but Sam can see...

Puckered gouges. A myriad of bruises ranging from dark purple to faded yellow. Poorly healed-over claw marks, raised and discolored and uneven. And teeth marks, on the juncture of his shoulder - _human_ teethmarks. Dean's knuckles are scraped raw. His fingernails blackened with dirt and soot and dried blood. His lip is split, evidence of a fairly recent beating.

He smells none too pleasant, which almost makes Sam laugh. He isn't sure why. He can clearly see the grime and grunge of Purgatory clinging all over his brother. First oder of business tomorrow, (if Dean can become upright and mobile) re-introduce him to the bath.

As Sam goes to pull the sheet up over Dean, he sees something, just above the line of Dean's hipbone - a darkish bruise, purple and round. His eyes are drawn to a second mark, much the same, following along the line of Dean's hipbone, almost disappearing under the waistband of Dean's jeans. They almost look like hickeys -

Sam's eyes snap back up to the teeth marks on Dean's shoulder.

He looks at his brother's face a long moment, his mind racing, then simply pulls the sheet up to Dean's chin, tucking him in, making sure he has enough slack on his IV in case he should roll over, and then he goes over to the corner of the room and unrolls his sleeping bag.

Some things you just don't ask about.

* * *

On the second day, Dean wakes with a start again. But not before Sam sees his fingers outstretch across the mattress, reaching as though searching for something that should be there and isn't. It's when Dean seems to realize that whatever he's looking for is not there that he snaps awake, eyes wide open, darting around frantically. It takes him a moment to remember where he is.

"G'morning," Sam greets cordially.

Dean doesn't speak, but unlike the day before, he doesn't stare either. Sam swears he can see Dean make the conscious decision to act more... like himself. He juts his chin toward Sam in a familiar nod, and though it isn't speech, not yet, Sam is happy for it. Acknowledgement.

Dean's feeling stronger. His color is better already. He's not so shaky and tense, though he does still wince slightly with every movement. He does so when he reaches over and pulls the needle out of his arm.

"Feeling better I see," Sam states curtly, but he's glad. Refusing treatment was very _Dean_. Dean rubs his hand against the needle site, simply smearing any blood that's there, rubbing it into his skin.

The tension in the air has alleviated in small part, and Sam is thankful.

Dean is doing much better at pretending he is back to _normal_. He remembers what is expected of him. For the most part he remembers the steps. The first one is, funnily enough, taking actual steps. His body hurts, impossibly so, but he refuses to be bedridden.

Just sliding his leaden limbs over the edge of the mattress is inexplicably difficult.

Dean pushes himself up, gripping the bedside table, his knuckles white. Sam turns, sees him, and rushes over to help, putting an arm around Dean's waist to steady him.

The moment skin touches skin Dean tenses, whirls around, and shoves Sam to the ground. He bears down on Sam like an animal, like the touch was a declaration of war. Sam looks up at him, wide eyed, and puts his hands up in a display of submission.

Dean's knee-jerk rage dissipates, and Sam can literally witness the change.

"It's ok," Sam offers. "It's ok. I'm sorry - I shouldn't have snuck up on you."

Dean's eyes drift off to the side, embarrassed, but Sam sees that as progress. At least Dean knows he's back in the world, that he doesn't have to be on the offensive anymore - not with Sam at least. That such behavior is no longer warranted. The warrior habits can, finally, stop.

Once up, it seems that sitting down would be tantamount to surrender to Dean. Sam rolls his eyes, tells him he should take it easy, but Dean simply grunts dismissively.

Dean walks stiffly, making rounds about the room.

"You're gonna wear a track in the floor," Sam jokes, and Dean shoots him a _shut up_ look that makes Sam smile.

What feels like hours later, Dean finally settles in a chair at the table.

Sam looks up from his laptop - he's doing it again... Dean is clutching his chest, as though he possesses some invisible wound and is trying desperately to stem the bleeding. Sam toys with the idea of saying nothing, not wanting to irritate Dean by making it so obvious that yes, he is watching his every move. But not saying anything, just goes against Sam's nature.

"Your chest ok?"

Dean looks at him questioningly.

Sam nods to where Dean's got his hand pressed just below the center of his pectorals, "You've been doing that a lot. Still sore?"

Dean sees what he is doing and realizes that he doesn't know when his hand got there, he'd had no idea he was even doing it. He knows _why_. But he can't very well tell his brother that the gaping hollow hole in his chest is expanding and he must've subconsciously been trying to tamp down the ache and hold himself from busting open. So he just shrugs, and pretends like it doesn't matter, and he takes his hand away. But it only clamps down on his thigh instead. Dean doesn't notice he does so.

But Sam does.

His white knuckles, fingers gripping into his thigh as if Dean were riding out some horrible wave of pain and trying to hold back... Sam looks at Dean's face and sees that the man is, quite obviously, oblivious to his own body language. The knowledge makes Sam nervous. He wishes Dean could tell him what's wrong.

He wishes Dean would say anything at all.

* * *

_Unrelated note pertaining to the actual show - I kind of want Dean and Charlie to be BFFs. __Also, I'd like to say for the record - oh my God, __**WIG**__. __If you've seen the latest episode, this will make sense to you and I imagine you reacted similarly. If you haven't yet seen the latest episode - please, look out for the wig._

_But back to business! I am extremely gracious for the reviews and follows. Thanks so much! More to come._


	14. Chapter 14

_Hey guys! Thanks so much for the reviews!_

_Not entirely pleased with this chapter's flow, but I didn't want to leave you hanging. Knowing me I could pick it apart for weeks and still be unsatisfied, so hell... I'm just gonna send it out!_

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

It's day three back in the world. Dean knows because the sun sets, and then it rises again. Predictable. Normal. And perfectly regimented.

The steady cycle of night and day doesn't coalesce well with the chaos Dean feels inside. Nor does the quiet in the house, the lack of violence and of the desperation to run.

Nothing is right. Castiel's absence is like a razor blade floating around loose in his body. But he is happy, at least, to have Sam again.

Sam doesn't make any demands on Dean. He makes _suggestions_. He suggests that Dean piss in the toilet, instead of in the grass outside the house. He suggests, that on the third day Dean _finally_ take a shower, which he does. And it is bizarre. It feels... amazing. _So amazing_, Dean spends hours in there. He curls up on the bottom of the tub and just feels. Warm, comfortable. He's forgotten the strangely smooth feel of skin without dried blood and dirt and Castiel's come or sweat on it. When all of that is washed away he's left with his scars, and a few marks that the angel left that Dean prays will never fade. If he never sees Cas again, a few purpled hickeys along the line of his hip and the rapidly fading indentation of teeth on his shoulder will be all he has of him.

Next Sam suggests he eats. At first he can't. Everything looks... strange. It doesn't actually look like food. He recognizes a cheeseburger, toast, a bowl of cereal, a cup of milk - but he can't imagine ingesting it. He can't remember how he ever did. But just as in Purgatory, you get hungry enough, you'll eat whatever's put in front of you.

The tastes are too much though. Too much flavor. Too much grease. Too much sugar. He vomits, and Sam tries to help him, tries to put a hand to his back, but Dean shies away first, and when Sam tries again Dean turns on him. And the look in his eyes, like a cornered animal ready to fight it's way out, makes Sam back up.

Dean puts his hands up, as if to say that he's sorry, and closes his eyes, exhausted, leaning his head against the cold ceramic of the toilet bowl.

So Dean can only eat a little bit at a time. Pieces of the bun that taste like the hamburger, half a glass of milk, a handful of dry cereal.

He never says a word.

And he never comes to the middle of the room.

Sam notices that Dean sticks to corners, stays close to the walls, always has his eyes trained on exits and entrances and scanning the open spaces of the room. It is an understatement to say it's obvious he doesn't feel safe. And for the past two nights Sam goes to sleep with Dean in the bed across the room, and both nights Sam wakes up to the sound of Dean getting out of bed to sleep on the floor, between the bed and he wall, or underneath the bed, or sometimes in the bathtub. Again, the open space bothers him. Makes him feel vulnerable.

* * *

It takes three days for Dean to say something. And they're the longest three days of Sam's life.

Dean drops a fork and Sam beats him to reaching down to pick it up.

"Sorry," Dean scratches out.

Sam's head snaps up at he stares at Dean, "No, no - that's ok." A smile breaks out across his face, "That's... _great_."

Dean rolls his eyes, and it almost comes out right - it almost looks like _him_. Sam smiles the whole way through dinner.

Sam smiles and it's honest and true and it reminds Dean of a long time ago. A million years ago. When it was just Sam and him and the car and Sam had laughed and looked over at him. He remembers. Every day, he remembers a little more. How much he loves him. How much he's _felt_ in his life.

Despite his pain, despite missing the biggest part of himself, he is glad to see Sam. He is glad Sam smiled. He equates that to being glad he is back, because he knows he should be. He should be.

Sam is glad he's back.

When they're done Dean gets up and takes both of their plates. He reaches out, places his hand on Sam's shoulder, and squeezes. He doesn't look at his brother, he knows, he can feel, that the other man is shocked, nearly in tears with his relief. Dean wants to say _thanks_, and _it's gonna be alright_. But he can't. Not yet. So he squeezes again, and then lets go and walks away.

* * *

The first time Dean uses a plastic fork for his take-out, he snaps it in half. He seems shocked he was so able to, and sits there looking at the shard of plastic that remains in his hand until Sam's obvious amusement makes Dean crack a smile too. He throws the broken utensil at his brother.

The first time Dean uses a cup, he tilts too much to fast and ends up with a lap full of water.

The first time the phone rings, Dean pulls a knife from his belt so fast even Sam doesn't see it coming. But he quickly realizes the overreaction, tucks the knife away again, and goes back to his tv show, pretending nothing happened.

But other than that, he almost seems human.

He wears his clothes and shaves his face, eats his food like a civilized man, and even pisses in the toilet. Usually. But there's something off about him. Something that Sam can see clear as day.

It's that _look_. That never comfortable, always ready to attack look. That look that says he's always got something painful on his mind, something he can't help but think of, something he can't help but remember. And it is taxing.

* * *

...

* * *

Time went on. Purgatory grew further away.

Everything felt just slightly wrong - like wearing your shoes on the wrong feet - after awhile it started to hurt.

First came the pain. It throbbed in places so deep Dean couldn't readily identify them.

Then the disorientation. Dean would get confused. He would be in the middle of a task, and suddenly forget what he was doing in favor of total submersion in the memory of the taste of Castiel's skin, the way he moved when he was squinting through the forrest, trying to decide where to go. Sam would glance over to see Dean tying his boots, look away, and glance back moments later to find him standing across the room, head just barely tilted to one side, staring out the window - arms limp at his side, boots still untied.

It was unnerving.

The pain Dean felt was unexplainable. Terrible enough that it hurt to breathe, hurt to think. It was marrow-deep. But dull enough that he wouldn't die. No one would understand a pain like his, strange and undefinable. Dean knows this. So he doesn't complain. He doesn't ask to see a doctor. He doesn't need to be medicated or diagnosed. He knows the name of his pain.

Castiel.

Every moment feels like walking through three feet of molasses whilst wearing concrete shoes. Time feels slow, so concrete. Every moment takes so long, is so physically apparent that Dean feels the minutes are tangible, weighing him down like a waxy build-up on his every particle, until even his eyelashes feel heavy with it.

Dean thinks he's hiding it. How much it hurts just to live. But Sam knows. Of course he does. No one knows Dean like Sam. And he can see how much his brother is suffering - this strange post-trauma plaguing him. He doesn't eat enough. Doesn't sleep enough.

Dean doesn't speak, for long stretches. It makes Sam sick with worry. Dean nods, if he manages to wrangle his attention enough to focus. And the acknowledgement does bring Sam some relief. But then, there are times when he simply stares. Sam will ask a question, and Dean will give no indication that he's heard.

And it is terrifying.

No quips. No jokes. No angry retorts. No arguments. Just, blank silence.

A silence so much worse than when Dean had been too angry with him to speak in the past. Because back then Sam could feel all of Dean's emotions brimming just below the surface, an apparent tension, and he knew Dean was at some point going to explode.

But now... Now there was nothing. Sam could feel nothing from him. Except for the occasional vague inkling that Dean was waiting, searching. If anything his emotions weren't brimming, they were withering.

Dean is different. He is getting worse everyday. And Sam doesn't know how to help.


	15. Chapter 15

_Kind people of the interwebs, please excuse any typos. I was in a rush to post._

_Also, thank you again for reviews! I am enjoying your suffering. _

_...maybe I shouldn't say that..._

_What I mean is, I appreciate that you are so invested. Yes. I will continue to attempt not to leave you hanging!_

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Dean was functioning again and they both knew it wouldn't be long until the talking started. There were things that needed sussing out, questions that needed answering, and they'd lived in their quiet, post-Purgatory bubble long enough.

Sam would want to know what happened in Purgatory.

Dean would want to know exactly how the hell long he was gone. How Sam got him out. And if Dean could stomach it, if he could bear it, if Sam knows anything about Cas.

When the moment finally arrives, it's as apparent as a banging gong.

As soon as Dean sits down, Sam takes his deep, preparatory breath and turns to Dean, hands on his hips. That, and the fact that Sam remains standing tells Dean that he's about to start with a -

"So..."

Dean almost chuckles. Sammy, so predictable, and finally becoming familiar to him again. "So," Dean responds, "this the part where you tell me what you had to do to get me outta there?"

Sam is so surprised to hear Dean say that many words in one sitting that he is stuck for a moment before he responds, "Yeah. I guess so. I mean, we haven't really talked about anything yet."

Dean nods, "Ok, so how'd you do it? Did you open the door? _Again_. The door we almost died to keep closed." Dean's tone has taken a sudden dark turn. "Did you open the door to Monsterland Sam?" Dean asks, and it is plainly accusatory. Sam scoffs a bitter laugh that Dean recognizes for its indignant tone of _unbelievable_. But Dean can't help it. He's all messed up, all fractured inside and spun around, and if it was all for nothing... if Sam opened that damn door and Dean went to Purgatory for _nothing_... "Is that what you did Sam?" he seethes, and he isn't even sure when he got angry.

"No," Sam says concisely, clearly, so there can be no mistake.

And Dean knows he's not lying. And the fact stops him up momentarily. "...No?"

"I didn't open the door," Sam assures him, "I pulled you through."

Dean simply stares, baffled and waiting for explanation.

"That's why it hurt like a bitch, Dean. I literally..." Sam swallows and pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to say this to his powder keg of a brother. "The spell literally ripped you apart into small enough pieces to sneak out and then put you back together. Like teleporting."

Dean processes. Sam watches him process. It takes a good minute.

"Wow... Ok..." He continues to process and Sam waits to be either thanked or berated. "So I teleported."

Dean's had to wrap his mind around a lot of weird things, but this is definitely bizarre. "First man ever to be teleported back to Earth," he jokes with ironic pride.

Sam is so shocked that he finally got a joke out of him that a laugh erupts from him before he can stifle it.

"Ok Scottie, how'd you do it?" Dean asks warily.

Sam sighs as if he doesn't know where to start, then smiles and says, "A little creative magic."

"_Magic?"_

"Apparently I'm a badass warlock."

"You're... I'm sorry, you're a _witch_ now?"

"Girls are witches."

"You know what I mean."

"Well, I did a lot of reading of dusty old magic books, pretended to join a coven - a very fluffy, borderline useless coven," he adds seeing his brother's distaste pique before his eyes. "They were very into flowers and crystals and mother earth and very little actual _magic_ was successfully performed, but, they had some of the stuff I needed."

"A spell?" Dean can't believe it would be so easy.

"If summoning a demon is a slingshot, this was the _remote-controlled rocket-launcher_ of spells."

Dean looks impressed. "How'd you manage somethin' like that?"

"Took time. Took help. The spell itself wan't too tough. Just finding it, putting it together. There isn't a rock on this seaboard I didn't turn over. Did some horse-trading with some unsavory members of the Hunting community. But... what else could I do?" It's Sam saying he wouldn't, _couldn't_ leave Dean to rot. They both duck their heads, neither wanting to admit how much they missed each other, how glad they are to have each other back.

Sam clears his throat, "First I needed something of yours, which, obviously I didn't have a problem with. Every time I turn around I trip over something that was... _is_, yours."

Sam clears his throat awkwardly, and it occurs to Dean, how strange it must have been for Sam to have to lived as though he were dead. Just suddenly gone. He imagines it wasn't any less difficult the second time around. It wasn't for him, when Sam was gone after he jumped into the pit. Dean wonders what he told people - that his brother died in a car crash? Stray bullet? Aimed bullet?

Then he wonders if he told them at all. Maybe he pretended Dean never existed. The thought hurts him deeply, to the point where he has to make sure that it didn't go down like that.

"You must've seemed a sad sort, to your _coven_," he struggles to say the word without the knee-jerk disgust and Sam smirks at that.

"Yeah. Like I said, they were pretty touchy-feely. The head witch was an older woman who was convinced she had empathetic powers. She liked to tell me all the time about my _aura of loss_." Sam gave a quick laugh, remembering.

"Bet you got right along with them," Dean teased, though it didn't quite sound like it should've. Like it would have, before Purgatory.

Sam shrugged. "They were nice enough ladies. They all wanted to make a shrine to a picture of my dead brother," Sam tries to joke, tries to keep it light. "They wanted to send you good vibes out into the universe."

Dean laughs, and oddly the thought of it kind of warms his heart.

Sam's head ducks in that way it does sometimes when he is about to say something he has thought about keeping to himself. "But I uh, I didn't have a picture."

The honest sadness of the statement hits Dean like a mallet. A long, heavy silence sits between them.

"What did they think I died of?" Dean asks, if only to distract from Sam's obviously still resonating loss.

"Car crash."

Dean _mm's_ as if to say, _thought so_.

"So, um, for the spell, I had something of yours," Sam starts, getting right back on track, "and then I needed something from purgatory."

"What'd you use?"

"Went out and decapitated myself a leviathan."

Dean's eyebrows raise, impressed. "Good thinking."

"Add in some very rare sigils it took me months to track down, a few nearly impossible to locate ingredients and virgin blood, and you're in business."

"Virgin blood?" Dean repeats, warily.

"Don't worry, I didn't do anything evil to get it. I was an intern at a juvenile diabetes research center for a day. Swiped a vile or two five year old Jeremy Hanson's blood after we had a good long chat about how absolutely normal his life has been with his boring parents and his lack of funny uncles,_ thank god_."

Dean nodded, taking it all in. "Say, how'd you think of this? I mean, it's a good idea. Worked too."

"Actually... Bobby. I tried to think like him. What he might pull out of his hat at the eleventh hour. Wasn't perfect, hurt like hell," Dean nodded emphatically in agreement, "but I got you back."

Sam smiled. Dean's eyes fell, and his face darkened. Him, yes, but not Cas. "Yeah," he cleared his throat. "Kind of a crazy plan though, no? What if it hadn't worked?"

Sam shrugged, "I would have dealt."

"Yeah but what if you pulled something else through, something that wanted to _eat_ you?"

"I had to risk it." Sam takes a moment, shifting his weight and really looking at Dean, until the man has his eyebrows raised in discomfort and question. "I'm the number cruncher in the family. I know that. The _reasonable_ one. The one who always wanted safe and normal when we were growing up. I'm always telling you to slow down, to not be reckless." Sam looks down at the floor, not sure he can say this to Dean's face. "Dad taught me to stay in line, rank and file. You taught me to take risks, be bold. Go for it."

Dean is taken aback by the statement. He simply stares at Sam, no joke to throw back.

"That's how we beat Lucifer. That's how we beat Dick Roman. And I knew, I wasn't gonna get you back without some crazy half-baked, Hail Mary play, so... Here you are. Evidence of your own advice. So... thanks."

Dean huffs self-depricatingly, "Yeah well... thanks for not giving up on me."

* * *

All things considered, despite the growing ache in his body signifying he'd left something utterly important behind, Dean was glad to be out, if only so that Sammy had what he needed. He was glad his brother didn't have to go through the horrible, helpless feeling of not being able to do anything, not being able to save him.

Dean knows that feeling. He wallows in it every minute.

He didn't want that for Sam.

* * *

Every night before Dean sleeps he sends out a prayer to Castiel.

Every morning when he wakes, the first thing he thinks is _Castiel_. And he prays out for him again.

All day he's looking for signs. Waiting for the feeling of knowing he is in the room, nearby, alive.

Every day he is disappointed, and it leaves him feeling raw. Scooped out.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

This place is empty now. Dark. Pointless.

There's nothing but killing and running, screaming and scrabbling against leathery leaves wet with blood. Nothing.

But the quiet, impossibly distant sound of Dean, calling from far away. _Needing_ him. And the sharp, hot, constant pain of knowing he can't get to him.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

It starts as flashes, like hallucinations, of the forrest, blood on the floor soaking into the carper or worn wood, sounds of approaching danger, snarls and growls and tendons snapping. It isn't there. Rationally Dean knows that. But the piece of him that is hollow is filling up with purgatory. There are holes in his very essence, and he is at a loss; he can feel it, moment by moment, driving him mad.

It's strange really. Hell had been so much worse. It had taxed him in ways that... well, it was much worse. And yet, he'd never felt like this. Maybe, he thought, because when... when _Castiel_ (it physically pains him to think his name) had pulled him out of the pit, he'd brought all of him out. Every last memory and emotion and of course, his soul.

He'd had to. Because a human man isn't meant to live with a fractured, incomplete soul. Sam had gotten away with no soul because there was no lingering need for it when it was completely gone. He'd all but forgotten how to feel.

Dean feels. He feels all day every day, and it is killing him.

* * *

Sam's been waiting in the Impala for twenty minutes. All Dean needed to do was grab his coat. And Sam is starting to get antsy, because the motel clerk is kind of onto their credit card scam after Dean suddenly couldn't remember what name was on the card.

It was a bizarre mistake, _rookie_, and one Dean hadn't made since he was eight. There had been a lot of those lately. Dean forgetting he can't have a gun out in public. Dean forgetting he can't punch cops in the face just for being in his way. Dean forgetting how to work a case. Dean forgetting how to answer simple questions...

Sam was concerned, sure, but right now he'd be more concerned if they went to prison.

Especially since Dean is lacking in the swagger he used to pride himself on. It's weird to think he's maybe not the strongest guy in the room anymore. It doesn't seem right.

Sam cuts the engine and huffs out of the car, slamming the door and stalking through the parking lot. On the short walk he thinks about Dean - the way he's gone pale, and withdrawn, sometimes suddenly angry; the way he looks desperately at every click of the door, every creak in the floorboards, every crunch of gravel. It's not like it was when he first got back, when everything was a threat and his first reaction was attack. Now everything is a sign, a _maybe_, and Dean doesn't get ready to fight. Instead his body goes taut and expectant and his eyes go hopeful and he _waits_. Until he is crushed by the lack of arrival of whatever it is he is waiting for.

Sam can see Dean's heart break with that disappointment, until it looks like he's caving in on himself.

Sam's jaw clenches at the thought - as soon as he gets the both of them outta here he's going to have a serious sit-down with Dean. He's got to be able to help somehow, because he is afraid of what will happen if his older brother goes on like this.

"Dean?" Sam steps into the room impatiently, looking around but not seeing his brother. "Dean! come on! Let's go!" When he receives no response he shakes his head. But then he turns the corner, and his blood freezes.

Dean is on the floor, lying on his side, doubled up on himself and curled into the smallest fetal position he physically can, visibly shaking.

Sam runs to him, falling to his side, and when he puts his hands on him he can feel the tremble of Dean's body and the tautness, every muscle hard and tight, convulsing.

"Dean?" he panics, the worry obvious in his voice.

Dean merely clutches at his chest, fingers digging into his ribs as if he's going to rip himself apart, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Dean, what is it? What's wrong?" Sam asks desperately.

The scream Dean lets out through clenched teeth was enough to stab at Sam's heart until he almost vomited. It was anguish - deep and unadulterated.

Sam is up not a moment later, tearing the room apart looking for hex bags. His heart is beating wildly and his breath is coming fast, faster with every passing second that he doesn't find anything.

Sam turns around to start on the kitchen, and freezes. Dean is suddenly standing where he had just been laying. Just... standing there. Looking hunched, broken, staring blankly down at the floor.

It is so unsettling, that for a moment all Sam can do is stare, baffled. "Dean-"

"We should go now," Dean mutters.

Sam's mouth opens as though he has a reply, but there is absolutely nothing he can think of to say.

Dean turns stiffly, shoulders hunched, head ducked, and walks out of the room. Through the door that he leaves open Sam can see him walk through the parking lot to the car and climb into the passenger seat. Sam doesn't move. He can't. He is immobilized by how in over his head he is. He doesn't know what's happening to his brother.

* * *

Sam thought it would've taken longer to get the truth out of Dean. He was always resistant to talking, especially when the subject was his own maladjustedness. They were driving down a sunny two-lane highway, green grass and the occasional cow on either side. The sun was causing Dean to squint, and Sam glanced over from the driver's side (Dean never drives anymore - he can't remember where they're headed most days anyway) noticing the way the sunlight hurts him. He reached across into the glove compartment and pulled out an old pair of sunglasses, dark plastic things Dean hadn't worn in years. He handed them to Dean and he put them on, Sam watching as his brow finally smoothed out some in relief.

"Dean, we need to talk about what's going on with you."

Dean doesn't respond. Doesn't even roll his eyes or take a defensive posture.

"You've been... I'm worried. You're all over the place. And... what happened back there, that was..." Sam sounded utterly traumatized.

Dean did feel sorry about that. But his brain couldn't quite work out a response. That happens sometimes - Dean's brain forgets about words. They're all scrambled up in his head, so he can _feel_ what it is he wants to say, but he can't arrange it properly. He looks down at his hands, frustrated by his inability to respond, wishing that it was with Sam the way it was in Purgatory, with Cas. Wishing that Sam could somehow just know what he knows. Feel what he is feeling.

But he can't. It's impossible.

Sam starts carefully, "With Hell it was... nightmares, and you were angry, and it was scary sure, but I kind of understood it. I mean, I didn't _understand_, I wasn't there. But, I knew at least where it was coming from." His hands tighten and loosen on the wheel, and Dean watches Sam's nervous tension start to show. "Dean, I need you to talk to me here, man."

Dean looks back down at his hands, "I know," he scratches out.

Sam nods, glad to have gotten a response, hoping they are getting somewhere.

"It's..." Dean starts, but he can't get it out. He hasn't said it in a long time. He's almost afraid to say it now, like somehow it would jinx them, and then there'd be no hope for getting him back. "It's... Cas," he says, almost inaudibly.

"Cas?" Sam clarifies, "Castiel?"

Dean winces at his brother's casual use of the angel's name.

"He was there with you," Sam says as if he's just realized. He brings a hand up to hold his forehead for a moment, "Of course. I'm sorry, I... I was thinking so hard about getting _you_ out I didn't even..."

There is a heavy moment of silence in the car. And then Dean says, flat and even, "I left him behind."

"No, Dean, you didn't. It's not your fault. It's mine," and to his credit, Sam looks sincerely guilty.

"I need to get him back."

Something in the way he says it makes Sam pause. He glances over at Dean, seeing his face is impassive, but there's something underneath. Something buzzing under his skin, in his mind, and Sam can feel an electric desperation in it. He doesn't even think to argue, to point out that just getting Dean out was borderline impossible. He just turns back to the road, and promises, "We will."

* * *

Dean still prays before he sleeps, to Cas, or to God to bring him Cas. And he still reaches out for him in the morning, and prays again when his hands come up empty.

He doesn't stop. Even if he does stop hoping it will work. After all he knows better than to hope for action based on prayer. He knows God isn't listening. The only person who would listen to his prayers is lost from him.

The knowledge makes it hard for him to sleep.

Sam can hear Dean get out of bed. He can hear as he pulls the blankets off the mattress and covers himself on the floor, between the wall and the bed. It's the same every night, so Sam isn't surprised by the sounds. He is curious though when a moment later he hears Dean move again and pull something off the bed before settling.

The next morning, Sam wakes to find Dean curled up, small as he can make himself, in the corner, a pillow lying beside him, his arm wrapped around it as though it were his bedfellow.


	18. Chapter 18

_Was without a computer for a hot minute. Back now. In a crazy rush, so please forgive any mistakes. Hope you like it!_

_Please review._

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

They've been wracking their brains for weeks trying to find a way to pull Castiel out of Purgatory. The other spell wasn't going to work - they didn't have anything of Cas' to burn, and without that, who knows what they would pull through. So in the mean time, Sam catches onto a run-of-the-mill hunt and tells Dean it would be good for them. Clear their minds of Purgatory so that when they come back to it, they come back fresh.

Dean is resistant. He can't stomach the thought of putting Cas on hold, even for a second. It takes severe coaxing on Sam's part and sometimes medicinal help to get Dean to even take a break to go to sleep most nights. But Sam convinces him that they've hit a wall, and no _Eureka!_ is going to come to them like this. So they go hunting.

It's a usual sort of thing - mysterious deaths, cops have no clue because "none of it makes sense" blah, blah, blah.

They show up at the first house (the latest victims') posing as FBI, Sam glancing at Dean nervously because he just doesn't look right. His suit doesn't look right on his body, his expression is blank and unfocused, he wanders away while the local cops are talking to them. Sam covers for him exceedingly well, but it doesn't change the fact that everyone who sees Dean can see that he is somehow _off_.

Dean is standing in the middle of the bustling room, full of cops and forensics guys doing their thing, and he's staring off into nothing, head tilted to the side. Sam hopes they all assume Dean is some sort of detective-savant. He comes up to him slowly, "Uh, Dean-"

"It's a demon," Dean states matter of factly.

"Sulfur?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head, staring around with an intense but detached focus that seems strangely familiar, though it looks extremely odd on Dean's face, Sam thinks.

"How do you know it's a demon?" Sam questions carefully.

Dean's brow un-furrows, broken from his trance by the question. He doesn't look at Sam as he answers, "I just do."

Dean walks away out the front door and down the walk before Sam can shake the feeling that he's just uncovered yet another new oddity in his brother.

But, Dean was right. More than that, he was creepy-accurate. He managed to simply guess where the thing was and which seemingly nondescript person it was in. They captured him, exorcised him, and returned the formerly-possessed guy to his place of work unconscious, wet and salty, but otherwise unharmed.

All in all, it was a success.

But there was a nagging feeling in Sam's gut, foreboding. Dean was a good hunter, a great one, but there was no explanation Sam could see for how he'd known all of that.

* * *

He took a break. Just like Sam said. But the sitting on his mattress later that day Dean still can't find his _Eureka!_. They've been looking for weeks, and still, nothing. Nothing but one more exorcised Demon, which in itself should make Dean a little glad. But it doesn't. Because it doesn't bring him any closer to getting Cas back.

And Dean can't take it anymore. He just can't.

Sam wants them to take their time, do their research, do it right. They got Dean out, so they'll get Cas out, he claims. But Dean is losing faith. More importantly, he's losing steam. Without Castiel he feels scattered, weak. Like a countdown has begun and is ticking away the time until he just can't remember anymore - who he is, how to function, or God forbid, the angel himself. Things baffle him more and more everyday. The world around him is starting to make less and less sense. It is bright and noisy and full of people and sounds and smells and just... _movement_ everywhere. It is almost debilitating how overwhelming it can all be. After the quiet and still and isolation of Purgatory. And with no Castiel there to feel it with him, to share with him in his disorientation...

He doesn't even want to kill anymore. He doesn't feel like fighting.

Sam leaves Dean alone later that night - to go get dinner or something. Dean wasn't really listening. But his brother leaves him alone, and Dean makes a bad decision. He knows it's a bad decision. He just doesn't care. He's desperate, and hunting the demon has made him think about his options. Even as he's feeling drops of his own blood fall into the bowl, he wonders if it could really be this easy. Just this once...

Either way, he doesn't know what else to do. He needs Castiel back, now. Doesn't just _want_ him back, but _needs_. And Dean has never been above making reckless decisions before, so why stop now?

He lights the match and huffs a deep breath, trying to convince himself he's ready for this. He drops the flame into the bowl, there is a moment of silence, then -

"_Dean_," Crowley states with recognition and obvious frustration. Dean can't help but notice the mingled with surprise on the demon's face. "I heard you were back," Crowley starts, "your stupidity never fails to amaze. You brought _me_, to _you_, even knowing how dearly I would love to turn you inside out and hang you above my mantle. How, idiotically brave-"

"Shut your face, I'm here to deal."

"My, my... aren't we pinched today." Crowley assesses him for a long moment, dark eyes taking in every detail from the stubborn set of Dean's jaw to the obvious ache in his body, apparent by his posture. "You're in a bargaining mood then?" he says, pretending as though he can't believe it.

"I need you to bring back Cas. From Purgatory."

Crowley's eyebrows raise.

"You got Eve out. You opened the door before. I want you to get him out."

Crowley takes a moment to let it all sink in, his cunning mind working it all over. "Would this be the feathery prude who double-crossed me and left me for dead? _That_ Cas?"

"Don't play games with me, asshole. Can you do it or not?"

Crowley looks down at the floor, considering as though it is a run of the mill business transaction, pacing slowly, calculatedly. He stops, turns to face Dean, and asks with a dark smirk, "What're you willing to give?"

"Anything," Dean answers, too quickly and knows it.

Crowley gives him an odd look, an expression the man has never seen on Crowley's face before, something that's hard for him to understand because of it's brief, momentary flash of something like concern.

"Careful darling," he says, oddly without snide pretense, "you're showing your hand." As Crowley says, there's no fun in pummeling a ball of wet fur. "You're willing to give your soul, for Castiel's return?"

"Yes."

Crowley circles around Dean, calmly, pretending to be considering but they both know he's teasing. He can feel Dean's desperation like a chill in the air and he can't help but use it against him. Dean's hands are fisted at his side and he takes a deep breath to keep himself from surging forward and tackling the demon to the ground out of pure animal frustration.

Finally, after what feels to Dean like an hour of tense silence, Crowley turns to him and says succinctly, "Sorry handsome. Can't be done."

Dean's expression falls, and he can't hide it. Crowley watches with fascination.

"I don't believe-"

"Oh save it, moron. Use your brain for one minuite, as foreign a feeling as it must be to you, and think about everything it took to open that door. It can't be done. Not again. If you don't believe me based on that, think about this - Why would I lie? In what universe would I give up the chance to get my hands on your soul?"

Dean looks at him and knows it's true.

"Shame, really," Crowley adds lightly. "I'd truly love to add a Winchester to my collection. I'm starting to feel like the only demon who _hasn't_ owned one of your asses. It's getting embarrassing..."

Dean's mind is reeling with the overwhelming information that his last idea of getting Cas back has failed.

Crowley looks Dean up and down, "Oh well. I'm sure you'll find yourself in another deal-worthy pickle soon enough. Can't seem to stay away, can you. I like to think it's my winning conversational skills-"

"What if you send me back?"

Crowley literally stops, actually thrown off, and squints at Dean.

"Can you send me back to Purgatory?" Dean demands, stepping toward him.

Crowley's assessing squint continues, and Dean can tell the demon is surprised. "That..." Crowley starts, eyebrows raised, "is more manageable."

"Can you do it?" Dean asks breathless.

Crowley looks at him long and hard. "Yes."

Dean exhales as if he's been holding his breath for minutes. He smiles, and nods, and Crowley is thrown off again.

Dean knows that he shouldn't do this. And there is a pang in his heart telling him that Sam will be heartbroken, Bobby would've killed him before he let him make another deal, Castiel would tell him not to... And, he'll go back to the pit.

But Dean's mind can't process that. All he can think, all he can feel, is the need to do this. Now.

"I'll give you, ten Earth years with your angel," Crowley starts quietly, "and then I send my hounds into purgatory to get you." He takes a step closer to Dean, "And then you're mine." He smirks, ducking his head to try and meet Dean's eyes, "You sure you want it?"

It's a better deal than he got before, ten whole years with Cas. But then, Crowley always was old-school about his deal-making. Dean's jaw clenches, he knows his answer. "Yes."

"All sales are final sweetheart."

"I know, just get on with it."

There is a heavy moment of silence in which Dean has just enough time to think about how much he wants to punch the smirk off of Crowley's face before Crowley sends a chair reeling across the room, smacking into the backs of Dean's legs, causing the man to fall sitting. The demon clamps his hands on the surprised man's shoulders, holding mercilessly, and presses his lips to Dean's. Dean winces into the kiss and Crowley only smirks against him, genuinely enjoying Dean's helpless disgust. He pushes his tongue into Dean's mouth, and had Dean been stronger, had he been the man Crowley used to know, the demon would never have gotten away with it. But Dean wasn't the same, and Crowley knew it. It would go against his nature not to take advantage. And Dean didn't have the fire to fight, he didn't want to risk losing the deal.

The kiss was dry, and Crowley tasted of smoke and some strong foreign whiskey flavor and it felt so wrong.

Suddenly though, he stopped. The king of Hell went still and pulled away, just far enough to look into Dean's face with a lofty puzzlement.

"Well..." he says with fascination and faint amusement. "_That's_ new."

Dean's jaw snaps shut, and it takes everything he's got to keep his sudden inhuman rage in check. "_Haha_," he responds sarcastically. "Deal's done, get on with it."

Crowley took a deep breath, taking a step back back from Dean, slipping his hands casually into his pockets. "Can't."

"Whatta you mean, _can't_. We sealed the deal, you don't get to back out now -"

"It's a moot point I'm afraid," Crowley states. "You don't meet the prerequisites. Which I'm guessing is why you look like you've been on one too many benders."

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"The deal is for your _soul_, handsome. One human soul. And yours, is incomplete."

Dean's heart sinks, but not in surprise. In the terror of confirmation of something he already knew.

"There's a great big bloody chunk of your soul missing..." Crowley looks him up and down smugly. "You need more help than I can give you."

With that, Crowley is gone.

And Dean is left alone in the room knowing that his last, best hope of getting to Castiel left with him.

* * *

Sam returns to the room later in the night, to find Dean crumpled in the corner, looking pale, and hopeless. But before he gets across the room, he sees the summoning magic right there in plain view.

Sam stiffens, then asks, forcefully, what Dean's done - then yells, then screams. But Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. He doesn't even seem to realize there's someone else in the room.

Sam stands up straight, heart thundering in panic. He runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks at Dean, and walks over, crouching down in front of him.

His voice is kind and careful, "Dean, please, did you call a demon here? Did you... did you make some kind of deal?"

Dean's face stays blank, but his eyes get glassy of a sudden, and Sam's eyebrows draw together at how disturbing it is.

Dean gives a small shake of his head, _No_. Sam sighs heavily in relief, wiping his hand across his forehead with a, _Thank God_.

"I can't," Dean tells him. Sam's brow furrows. "I'm broken."

Dean finally looks at Sam, and Sam doesn't have time to be concerned about how terrible Dean looks before Dean is pushing him over roughly. Sam thuds onto the floor, landing shocked on his back as Dean crouches over him, suddenly furious.

"Not even Crowley wants my soul!" Dean growls down at Sam.

"_Crowley_?" Sam shouts. "Jesus, Dean! You summoned _Crowley_? Are you _nuts_!" Dean doesn't answer, he's seething, shaking as though there is an electrical current running through his body that has no way to get out. His shaking hands go up to his hair, and he grabs onto his own skull, sliding slowly up the wall until he's standing but still somehow cowering, hunched.

"Dean what the hell is _wrong_ with you! Why would you do-"

"I HAVE TO HAVE HIM BACK!" He screams, "I HAVE TO! DON'T YOU YELL AT ME! DON'T! _YOU DID THIS!_ YOU DID THIS TO ME - YOU PULLED ME AWAY FROM HIM!" Dean is red, his eyes wet, his face the picture of some terrifying coalescence of rage and anguish. His voice goes thin and shaky, "You ripped us apart. You made me abandon him..."

Dean collapses down the wall, clutching his ribcage with both arms as though every rib were shattered.

Sam is completely still. He barely breathes. He stares at his brother, this man he knows better than himself, and somehow, doesn't know at all.

They stay like that for a long moment.

When Sam finally moves to sit up, Dean shrinks down into himself further, turning more toward the wall, as if to hide. Sam goes to his knees, scuffling closer to Dean, ducking down to try and catch his eyes.

Sam wants to say that he's sorry, that he didn't realize... But, didn't realize what? The words won't come out because Sam knows they are false. He will never apologize for saving his brother's life. But still, he can't help the sorrow he feels at what's happened to Dean now that he's back. And it makes him feel guilty, despite himself.

Guilty, and scared.

Dean has never not been himself. Depressed, angry, sure. But still Dean. Still recognizable. Sam is faced now with an incarnation of the brother he loves, that is very much unpredictable and unfamiliar. And he doesn't know what to say to make him feel better. And he cannot say, with any measure of confidence, whether Dean is more likely to throw himself off a bridge, or kill everyone he comes across.

Everything is spinning out of control.

Sam watches as Dean swallows hard, closing his eyes tightly as if trying to get himself together. His brow goes smooth and his face passive as his eyes open again.

"I'm sorry," Dean says detachedly. And then suddenly he turns, and hugs Sam desperately. So tight that it nearly knocks Sam's breath out. And Sam is so shocked by the transition, that he doesn't even hug back, he just looks down at what he can see, of his big brother wrapped around him. "I'm sorry Sammy," he hears Dean say, voice broken. He sounds like a child who knows he did a bad thing, and just wants to be forgiven, and it makes Sam's heart ache.

"It's ok, Dean," He promises. He lets his hands fall to his brother's back, finally hugging him in return. And he kneels there, feeling Dean shake, hearing him whisper _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ over and over again into his shirt.

Sam finally gets Dean off the floor and into a chair at the table a long while later. He looks exhausted, Sam can't blame him.

"So," Sam starts, and Dean almost smiles. "The deal, it didn't work, right? You didn't actually sell your soul."

Dean shakes his head. "Didn't take."

Sam sighs in relief, but still shakes his head like he can't believe Dean did something so selfishly reckless as call Crowley. He knows at some point he'll have to ask _why_ it didn't take. But not now.

"I had to do something," Dean tries to explain. "We're getting nowhere-"

"Yeah, Dean. But another deal? _Crowley_?"

"The King of Hell is the only player on the board with half-enough juice to swing it-"

"Dean, he _couldn't_ swing it! _Remember_?" he asked desperately, his eyes pleading. "He needed us and Cas _and_ Eve - he couldn't do it by himself! And how could you even _think_ of selling your soul again?"

Dean just looks down at the table.

"Look... I'm sorry. I don't wanna fight. It's just... I fought like Hell to get you back and you were just gonna throw it away. How would I have..." Sam can't stand to think of Dean suddenly gone again, it would be torture. He thinks about Dean destined for Hell again, and he can't stomach the thought. Especially not like Dean was now. So obviously capable of being hurt.

"I know. I'm sorry," Dean mutters. "I wasn't... I wasn't thinking..." he rubs his forehead as though he's suddenly got a terrible headache.

Sam takes pity on him. There's plenty he'd like to say about Dean's stunt, but he tries to let it go. Dean looks confused enough as it is.

"No more deals," Sam says strictly. "Ever."

Dean winces, as though Sam has said _No Castiel, ever_. But he nods, knowing he owes Sam this. "I'll find another way," he promises Sam. "There has to be another way to pull him... out..." Dean's brow smoothes out and his hand falls slowly from its place massaging his forehead. He gets the all too familiar look of drifting off. But then his eyes dart to Sam's. "Do you still have the spell? The one you used on me?"

Sam nods, "Yeah, but, we on't have the things we need - I already thought about that, and we don't have anything of Cas'-"

"Where is it?" Dean asks, already up and rummaging through the room.

Sam wants to argue, he knows the spell will be useless, but he also knows that there is no stopping Dean when he is like this. "Here," he goes to his back and pulls out their father's journal, flipping to the back where he has amended a lengthy chapter on the spell and its workings.

Dean takes it and starts reading. After a moment he stalks to the other end of the room and starts kicking their stuff out of the way. He pulls a marker out of the journal and frantically begins drawing sigils on the wall.

"Dean, what're you doing?" Sam demands.

"Bringing him back."

"How? We don't have... _Dean_!" Sam tries to get his attention but Dean can't be stopped.

"Go and get the blood," Dean commands. Sam has a brief moment to acknowledge that it's good to hear Dean being bossy again.

He's going to argue, going to say that it's too hard to pull off, it's the middle of the night... but hell. He's broken into worse places than blood banks and doctor's offices.

He grabs his coat and heads out.


	19. Chapter 19

_I don't even know anymore why I am still surprised when my fics turn out monstrously long. It's totally my MO. And yet, it still surprises me every time._

_Hopefully you guys are sticking with me. And I thank you wholeheartedly for that, for all the follows and favorites and reviews. Oh my. _

_Also, I'm sorry for the wait. Once again Mother Nature has thrown a wrench in my flow with all of her ridiculous blizzarding. I have to say, this story has faced more weather-related interference/interruption than any other story I've posted._

_I hope you like this one... Bit of a teaser. I apologize in advance._

* * *

Chapter Nineteen.

A B&E should never be as easy as this was, and Sam knocks on wood after silently thanking the universe for _one thing_ going right, as he pats his jacket pocket to triple-check that the vile of blood is still there. He comes back into the motel room and is greeted with the sight of Dean pacing, the spell all put together around him. He seems to have made surprisingly quick work of the very intricate and complex sigils and mixtures, and while Sam is impressed, it also gives him the same foreboding feeling from earlier, when Dean had simply known things he _couldn't_ have about the demon. It had taken Sam himself several hours and a few very frustrating do-overs to get the complex spellwork right.

"Where the Hell have you been!" Dean practically yelps when he sees Sam. He looks strung out and tweaking.

Sam pulls the vile from his pocket, "Not exactly a milk run-"

Dean steps forward, eyes wide, "You got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." Dean snatches it from his hands and carefully mixes the vile of blood into the bowl with the other fixings. "What're you gonna burn for something of Cas'?" Sam asks carefully.

Dean's jaw flexes, he stares down at the bowl but doesn't answer.

"Dean, if we don't do this right, there's no telling what we could bring through. How many people could die because of what we -"

"I've got it handled," Dean cuts him off sharply. Then he looks at Sam apologetically, as if he hadn't meant to be so rough, and says, "Trust me."

Sam breathes deep, knowing he should stop this. But he doesn't. Ultimately he just walks over to Dean, which is as much compliance as he's going to get.

Dean says the incantation over the bowl, fast and accurate, and again Sam's eyes narrow as he watches him, unsettled. Dean nods to Sam and he lights a small candle (a very specific thing made with a martyred priest's bone ground into dust and mixed into the wax that Sam had searched for months for) and drops it in, just as he had last time. Dean starts with the next incantation and Sam's heart starts to thud in his throat - this is the part leading up to the personal item. It's supposed to go into the bowl, burn in blood like the rest of the ingredients. As they get to the end of the incantation, Sam's eyes go wide as Dean pulls out a knife, slicing the underside of his forearm from wrist to elbow.

Dean bleeds into the bowl, seemingly unconcerned for the free-flow of the dark blood from his body.

Sam's mouth is hanging open, he doesn't know what to think about the connotations of the action. And the sight of Dean's blood leaking dark and messy like warmed, red molasses over his skin and onto the floor is utterly disturbing. Sam moves to help the wound, out of instinct, to stem the sickening flow of Dean's blood, but Dean looks at him warningly and Sam hesitates. Dean's eyes are sharp and commanding for the first time since he's been back - Sam stops cold.

The bowl begins to smoke and Dean continues reading, completely undeterred by his bloodloss.

There is a rumble.

Sam and Dean's eyes meet.

Suddenly the house shakes, an ominous rumbling under the floorboards making both men look down at their feet unsteadily. The lights flicker and an oppressive sound, like feedback from an amplifier buzzes in the air.

"It wasn't like this before!" Sam shouts over the growing volume of the ruckus.

From the sigils on the wall there is a blast of white, hot light that sends both Winchesters collapsing to their knees, covering their eyes. Sam calls out for Dean, but the older brother ignores him in favor of peeking through his arms toward the light, inching forward on his knees, not caring how it burns. Dean sees the light is swirling around in a great column stretching from floor to ceiling, gathering together into a solid beam, condensing down...

For a moment, everything is silent and still - inhumanly suspended - the sound of nothingness, the _void_. Sam covers his ears, doubling over, the pressure too much. Dean covers his ears, but he keeps his eyes open. He won't look away. He doesn't feel his blood sliding down his elbow and soaking into his clothes.

A moment of that oppressive silence very familiar to Dean hangs dead in the air.

And then an explosion of white light - a sound like the Earth has cracked in half, the house giving a horrible jolt, the etherial light exploding outward - and at its center, a silhouette.

For a brief moment, Dean's heart stops.

In the middle of the light, is Castiel.

Down on one knee, blade in hand, ready to fight - there is Dean's angel. He is fierce, eyes glowing impossible blue with Heavenly light behind them, black shadow wings cast up against the wall.

A sound like a sob of relief bubbles up from Dean's chest, but it can't be heard.

The etherial light surrounding Castiel races, almost faster than Dean's eyes can track, down into the angel as if imploding into him, and is gone from view leaving the room dim once again.

Dean can manage one thought and one thought only,

Castiel is back.


	20. Chapter 20

_This chapter was difficult to write, I really struggled with it, and it's a long one. So i really hope it came out to your satisfaction, lovely readers. But when I say long, I mean long._

_Take a snack break if you need to. I won't judge._

_Thanks so much for reviewing. And for the record it's not that I _want_ you to suffer... it just... happened that way... But here you go - (bitter)sweet relief._

* * *

Chapter Twenty

Castiel is back.

The air in the room crackles.

Castiel shivers with the feeling of his power returned, his Grace reanimated by his proximity not only to Heaven, but to Dean. It is a warm shiver. Like a forgotten pleasure, a current flitting/skating over his skin and settling low in his spine. He feels impossibly strong.

He feels Dean, close, in every molecule of his awareness. And it is such a relief that he want to scream and level cities and shake the Earth's surface just because.

But first, he has the oddly disorienting task if reorienting himself to the feeling of being an angel - Heaven in his head, his brothers and sisters, thousands of voices and senses. Grace in his wings, vibrating in his stolen body, as strong as ever.

It feels good. Being back feels right - the weight of it, the thinness of the air.

His eyes scan the room, taking in everything, the way they always had before Purgatory, his vision sharp again. Perfect.

Finally, his eyes land on Dean, and Castiel sees nothing else.

Nothing else, but him. And it is as if a bone he didn't know was broken snaps back into place - excruciating, but right.

But Dean is pale, crouched on his knees as though his body might buckle. He is clean, dressed, shaved, civilly human-looking in a way that is almost foreign to Castiel at this point. It's not how he remembers him. The sight of Dean trying to be this again - brother, son, hunter, regular boy. It doesn't fit him anymore. And Castiel wants to knock him down and rip his clothes off and make him an animal again...

But he doesn't. Because suddenly the desire to do so, a desire that was commonplace not so long ago, feels strange and unnatural and shameful now that he is back on earth. Like a hot poker in the part of his mind that is full of Heaven again. The part that demands certain things of him, certain behaviors.

Castiel wants Dean regardless, and shame flares within him. But the longer he looks at Dean, the more he can see wrong with him, incongruous to the precious memories that have been keeping him alive while all alone. This Dean isn't the creature Castiel mated in Purgatory...

He's the righteous man. And Castiel feels a sudden shame, so deep, so razor-sharp, that he wonders if God will finally show himself, if only to strike him down for violating that which was so sacred as to be written into the destiny of earth itself. Now that he is an angel again, he realizes he never stopped being an angel to begin with, despite losing his power. And now, he is an angel who held down the righteous man into the mud, and took his own selfish pleasure from him. One of God's most special...

Castiel takes in every detail of Dean now: hunched, barely breathing, too pale, covered in his own blood. He looks fragile, utterly vulnerable and so upsettingly mortal.

And all of this observation and thought takes Castiel barely more than a second. So he knows without a doubt, he is Host of Heaven again.

The room is still and silent, aside from the sound of Sam panting and scuffing against the floor, struggling to get up.

Dean is completely still. Castiel is completely still. Their eyes are trained on each other.

Dean feels the aching void in his chest, the gnarling pocket of Purgatory caged within his ribs, start to ease. His blood flows clean and hot though his veins, his mind relaxes and arranges more efficiently than it has since his return, and centers into this one focus -

Cas.

For a moment, Castiel looks at him as though he cannot quite believe he is seeing right. Then the angel stands, surefooted and strong and utterly inhuman, and Dean can do nothing but stare up at him from his knees, so thankful that he isn't sure there is a word for the feeling...

Castiel looks down at him like the King among monsters Dean and only Dean knows him to be, the artful killer that Dean has remembered so well. His shadow-wings disappear. He steps toward Dean, and the man is immobilized, as though he is seeing God himself.

Castiel is dirtier, bloodier, more severe than Dean left him, and he is perfect. Dean's breath catches in his chest while he wonders for a brief moment if the perfection in front of him is another cruel hallucination. A distorted memory of Purgatory haunting him, surged up stronger than before... But that doubt disappears quickly because somehow he knows it isn't. He can feel Castiel. He can feel the fierce destruction the angel has reigned on Purgatory in the wake of his absence, all his thoughts and memories flooding into Dean in an instant. And Dean can feel the angel now, adjusting to the knowledge that, yes, he is finally back.

They stare, just silently looking at, into, each other for too long.

Sam watches nervously, climbing clumsily to his feet. The two had always stared, always been able to say a lot, without saying anything. But this... this is different. And it is... frightening to Sam. Something about it feels... _off_. Castiel feels off. And it is glaringly obvious to Sam, but he knows Dean won't agree - his brother is looking at Castiel as if he were salvation embodied. And that too is slightly frightening.

Castiel is fierce again, less man than ever and more angel than he's been in a long time. Sam shudders to notice that he is entirely focused on Dean. And Dean, Sam sees, is trembling on his knees, gazing at Castiel as though he is... everything. His face is growing paler by the moment, almost gray now, his eyes dark, and the pool of blood is spreading in the carpet by his side, where his arm his hanging, still bleeding, and forgotten. Seeing the angel and his brother so close to each other makes Sam realize fully, just how terrible Dean looks. And Sa knows, if they don't stop his bleeding soon, Dean will die right here in this room.

Castiel's is still, his face blank and calculating, invincible and detached. Dean's breath is trembling and he is beginning to sway in his struggle to remain upright. Castiel brings his hand, slowly, to close around Dean's throat. Dean has time to see it coming, but doesn't fight back, doesn't pull away.

Sam can't understand it. Cas must've gone mad, and Dean is just letting him...

As soon as the angel's hand closes around Dean's throat the man's eyes flutter closed and he lets out a sigh of relief that comes out so shockingly close to a sob that it stuns Sam for a moment. But only a moment - because then he realizes that he is _watching_ Castiel about to choke-out his brother.

Sam lunges forward - Dean must be too weak with the bloodloss to fight Cas, Sam assumes. That must be it.

Castiel lifts a hand without sparing Sam a glance and sends him flying across the room, slamming into the wall and thudding to its base, unconscious. When Dean turns his head to look, out of worry for Sam, Castiel forces his head frontward again. His hand is soft and strong on Dean's skin, and Dean sighs with a smile when the angel's thumb rubs softly against the skin of his pulse point. Dean could almost fall asleep to the feeling, his body suddenly so tired, so heavy, and going a little numb. But then Castiel is pulling Dean to his feet so easily and Dean is using the angel's marble-strong form to balance himself, his hands clutching around Cas' biceps.

He opens his eyes, and sees his angel's face. They are eye-level now, and inches apart, and Castiel's eyes are clear blue and his face is beautiful and wonderfully familiar and makes Dean feel home.

"C-cas..." Dean barely gets out, smiling widely. He surges forward and wraps the angel in a hard hug, all of his weight anchored to him.

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean, feeling the solid truth of his body, right here, after so long alone. And he smiles, breathing in relief, breathing in the smell of Dean - leather and soap and motor oil and cinnamon-spice. He feels the soul he'd pulled from Hell and mended again in Purgatory. And for a brief second, he is at peace.

But his happiness is eclipsed, smile vanishing almost as soon as it appears, as he senses something dark, something that stinks of Hell. His eyes snap open and immediately focus on the remnants of the demon summoning spell at the other end of the room, still left there from earlier.

Dean can physically feel the angel's mood shift, he is that in tune with him again. He reluctantly pulls out of the hug, to see Castiel is looking at him sharply, danger in his eyes.

He is livid - no, _wrathful_. So much so that Dean is almost frightened.

"There's been a demon here," Cas starts darkly. The rage in his voice is barely-contained by his careful rumble. Dean can't help himself, he sighs at the sound.

Castiel's eyes scan the room blankly, taking in sensory data that Dean can only imagine, until Castiel's eyes snap back to Dean's, shocked and enraged. "Crowley," Castiel growls, and it sends a not unpleasant shiver down Dean's spine.

The angel grabs Dean hard by the throat and slams him back against the wall so hard he cracks the plaster.

"What did you do?" Castiel demands lowly, his face so close...

Dean can do nothing but revel in Castiel's closeness. He feels his words running out before they begin. He feels his limbs going to sleep, leaden and useless.

Castiel is enraged at Dean's lack of answer, breathing hard, feeling spun out of control, taking Dean's silence as a confirmation of his fears. "You made a deal with him?" Cas growls, so close to Dean's face that Dean can feel his breath on his skin. "You..." Castiel's hand tightens around Dean's throat, "you put your lips on him?"

"Cas," Dean chokes out pathetically, the pressure on his neck causing him to wince, only caring to speak now to tell Castiel how much he hated it, how wrong it felt. But all that he can muster is, "It was for you..." Castiel doesn't let up, but Dean doesn't fight him. He simply looks at Castiel in awe, with wet eyes, fingers trailing reverently, cold and clammy, over Castiel's face. He is desperate for Castiel to understand, "Please..."

It is the begging that tips Castiel off - the utter lack of bravado or self-defense on the hunter's part.

Dean winces, his eyes glassy, his eyebrows drawn up in submissive apology, and the sight is so foreign to Castiel, that it makes him pause. His head tilts in examination of this man that he's known better than anyone. Castiel has never known him to beg, to fold so easily, to do without self preservation of body _or_ image.

"Please," Dean pleads, and he isn't even sure what he's asking for. He just... needs.

Castiel's hand loosens around Dean's throat, and his eyes scan every cell of Dean's expression, his own eyebrows drawing together when he begins to see what he hadn't before - Dean is changed. Sickly. He is broken. Dean is pale, weak-looking, shaky and helpless and emotional.

Castiel's chest begins to throb with a sharp ache of everything Dean has felt since they've been apart. He can feel Dean's desperation, his hurt, his never-ending search and hopelessness. He sees, with heart-wrenching accuracy, Dean's inability to cope with the human world around him. His unfounded confusion at everything that used to make sense. Cas' grip loosens around Dean's throat further, until it's just skin against skin, his thumb caressing again. Then he can feel the man's hands on his arms, running up his biceps to his shoulders and back down again as if he can't stop touching - grabbing desperately as if he is afraid that Castiel will vanish.

"Hey Cas..." Dean wonders at him, dopey smile on his face as his eyes go slightly unfocused and his head tips back against the wall is if too heavy for him to hold up straight. Castiel squints at him in curious concern as Dean sways on his feet, his knees buckling so that Cas is entirely holding him upright, until the angel notices again the foot long slice up the underside of his forearm. Blood has coated Dean's palm, dripping slickly from his fingers, and there are smudges all over Castiel, everywhere Dean has touched him. But Dean doesn't seem to care that he is bleeding. And that too is disconcerting to the angel.

Castiel takes Dean's arm in hand, and Dean watches happily. Castiel presses his palm to the gash and after a moment of heat beneath Dean's skin, the wound is gone. Castiel doesn't even have a moment to observe his handiwork before Dean is on him - one hand on the side of his neck, lips soft against his own, newly un-bloodied hand sliding around to his back, pulling Castiel's body against himself.

Castiel's first thought is - _It doesn't feel the same_.

Something is wrong... but still, touching him again is such a relief, that Castiel ignores the his doubt. He's needed Dean too much, too long, has been desperate for him, and now he's here. Castiel's hands settle possessively at Dean's waist, and he deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue to Dean's in an effortless dominance.

Dean's hands feel like fire - Cas hasn't been touched in so long. He's wanted, needed, but he's been alone.

For a moment he hates Dean. He hates this man for making him need. So many things. For showing him all there was to want in touch, and then leaving him without.

He slams Dean back against the wall again, seeing him wince, and yet still look at him like he is God himself. it's as if there is nothing now that he could do to make Dean doubt him. And the thought of that kind of trust, that kind of devotion, makes his chest throb so hard that he feels almost sick. After the past few years, that kind of confidence in him from anyone let alone Dean nearly makes him cry. Castiel can't help himself-

The angel surges forward, holding Dean against the wall roughly, pressing the length of his body against Dean's harshly, as if magnetized to him from head to toe, crashing his lips down onto Dean's, open and rough and demanding. Taking what he needs. He has no capability for slow, soft touches or romantic reintroductions - being alone in Purgatory has stripped him of that for now. Now, all he has is raw desire. He kisses Dean hard and desperate, his hips bowing into Dean's with every move.

Dean makes a sound he doesn't even recognize - needy, like a whine, but too high-pitched to be his own voice.

He wants to reach out and touch Cas as the angel pushes his tongue into his mouth, but Cas is holding him in place too tightly. Dean's arms are pinned to the wall, down at his sides, Castiel's grip iron-tight on his biceps. He struggles, but Castiel is steel, he is too strong. Dean breaks from Castiel's ravaging kiss for a gasping breath, wiggling desperately in his hold, and finally Castiel releases him. Dean's arms shoot to wrap around the angel as if spring-loaded and they crash together again. It is a kiss of barely managed restraint and hunger, all teeth and tongue and Dean's hands grabbing desperately all over Castiel and Castiel's hands fisted, one in Dean's hair, the other in his shirt. Dean's hands slip up under the scrub shirt and he moans into Castiel's mouth at the relief that comes from feeling the angel's skin, the plain and curve of his back.

For Dean, it feels like life is starting again.

For Castiel, there is a prickling hollowness, growing in his gut, despite his pleasure. The hot poke in the Heaven part of his brain is insistent.

Cas can feel Dean's relief, his passion, and it is overwhelming, to the point where he has to pull away. His eyes squeeze shut and his head drops against Dean's shoulder heavily as Castiel attempts to stem the overwhelming titlewave of Dean's emotions, flooding into him. Dean's essence seems to simply open up to Castiel, throb and open for him and receive everything in Castiel that seeps out in search of him. It makes Dean feel complete again, with a sigh that rolls into a moan. It makes him feel as though he can order his thoughts once more. This bond, this connection that he and Cas forged in Purgatory, it's return makes everything make sense again. For a brief moment, he feels like himself.

But for Castiel it makes chaos erupt inside. He trembles, his hands fisted in Dean's t-shirt on either side of his ribs. It's too much. Too much. He isn't meant to feel all this - he is full angel again, back in the world, and he's not built for so much... _everything_. This is simply... _too much_. Especially now that he knows what it means to have it ripped away.

Now, back in the world, being irreparably tangled with Dean in soul and Grace is terrifying. It feels so much more intense and daunting, forcing itself into every part of him. And he isn't prepared. Castiel's heart aches when he knows Dean can feel him realize all this, and shy away.

Cas pulls back, takes a step in retreat, looking down at the carpet. Dean stays, arms half held out, half-expecting for Castiel to walk straight back into his hold, and waits. He waits for Castiel's next move.

The angel visibly stiffens, straightening up, wiping any semblance of expression from his face, making himself detached and strong and Heavenly Host again. Castiel, not Cas.

Dean's body aches for him. His grace-infused soul reaches out for him and meets... Nothing. Nothing but a wall, of aloof refusal. The terminal closed. For a moment, he thinks he might panic - he can feel his body start to tremble, something inside becoming frantic. He thinks he might die. Castiel soothes him just enough to assure him that he has no intention of disappearing. And though Dean wants for more, doesn't understand why he isn't being allowed more, he takes what little he is given gladly.

They both draw a breath. Castiel doesn't meet Dean's eyes. Instead, he turns to Sam's limp form, limp at the base of the wall. He glances to Dean in brief apology and knows what he must do. He walks over to Sam and crouches down. He feels Dean come to stand behind him as he presses his fingertips to Sam's head.

Sam opens his eyes slowly, the light coming in and everything slowly starting to focus. When it does he sees Castiel directly over him, crouching, looking at him sternly.

"I apologize."

Sam can't help but think that he doesn't really look apologetic. He rubs his head, sitting up.

Suddenly there is hard thudding at the door and Sam watches as Castiel's eyes shoot in its direction, his whole body going tense, ready. Dean stiffens into a a fighting position just behind Castiel, his hand holding lightly at Castiel's forearm as if just to make sure they don't get separated.

The thudding comes again, more insistently, and then, "Police! Open up!"

Sam sighs in relief, thanking God - it's just humans, just cops. He scrambles up to his feet, a little dizzy from the action.

Castiel grabs ahold of both Winchester's shoulders and suddenly the three are somewhere new, in the space of a blink.

It is a house, Sam can see. Run down, empty, but livable. Dark and cool. And most importantly, vacant of police. He looks to the side and sees their things, piled in the corner, dropped there by an angel who can move so quickly, that Sam and Dean are woefully incapable of even comprehending that he's come and gone.

"Thanks Cas," Sam offers awkwardly.

Castiel's eyes find his, sharp and hard. The unforgiving look of them almost knocks Sam back a step.

Castiel nods once tightly and then looks away, scanning the room the way Dean used to when he first returned. Looking for adversaries in every corner, every shadow.

There is a long moment of quiet. No one knows what to say. So, naturally, Sam tries to break the ice, "Glad you're back Cas."

Castiel's sharp eyes level on him again, and he says nothing. Just looks.

"I'm tired," Dean states suddenly. Sam notices his eyes are on the floor, his brow furrowed. Dean nods awkwardly in Sam's direction, "'Night."

"Oh, uh..." Sam stammers, the abruptness of the whole thing leaving him feeling out of step. "G'night," he offers, not knowing what else to do.

Dean takes a step but, but halts. He won't go any further until Cas is by his side.

Sam watches as they walk together to the bedroom, Castiel trailing behind Dean, Dean constantly glancing behind as if checking he's still there.

He isn't surprised that they go into the bedroom together. Dean has needed the angel so desperately that Sam knew without a doubt that in some way he loved him. So it doesn't surprise him that they disappear together for the night, though the sight isn't entirely comfortable.

Sam knows he should be relieved that Cas is back. But... he isn't. There's a deep unsettled foreboding in his gut. A feeling that's starting to get a little too commonplace for his liking. He knows, in that moment, watching the two slide into the dark together but not together, that getting Cas back wasn't the miracle cure they needed. Maybe now, they have even more problems than before. Twice the trauma. Twice the refusal to communicate. Twice the distance between him and his brother.

Sam tries to shake it off, but his mind is racing. Even after he climbs into his makeshift bed he finds himself worried about leaving Dean alone with someone just as shell-shocked, and basically invincible.

* * *

Once inside the dingy little room, Dean feels oddly like a virgin mail order bride promised to this stoic, inaccessible war veteran. Out of his depth somehow. Confused by everything he feels. Safer than he's been in months, but exposed.

His biggest hope is that now that they're alone, Castiel will dissolve this wall that he's put up between them so that they can be two parts of one whole again.

They stand silently, for a long moment. And it doesn't happen.

So now they are alone together, but still separate. And it feels so wrong to Dean; he can feel the familiar detachment coming over him... the confusion... the tiredness and tension. He glances around to memorize his surrounding and ground himself.

There is nothing but them, a chair, and the bed.

In need of something to do, Dean pulls off his outer shirt and tosses it on the chair, slips off his boots and kicks them underneath it. His hands are trembling and he can feel Castiel's eyes on him, burning with their stare, as his hands move to his jeans. But he hesitates. He can't - he can't be any more naked in front of Cas than he already is, or he might implode.

None of it makes sense.

Castiel watches as Dean prepares, for what, he doesn't know. As he watches Dean's trembling fingers hesitate at the waistband of his jeans, something flutters inside Castiel, and he feels all at once that he should leave, and that he couldn't stand to be anywhere else. He watches as Dean aborts that motion and simply goes to the other side of the bed and pulls the sheets back.

And then they're standing, facing each other, with a bed between them.

They move at the same time, Dean sliding carefully onto the bed, Castiel slipping off his shoes and coat and laying back against the mattress. So then they are shoulder to shoulder on the bed. Both staring up at the ceiling. The ruckus of their thoughts and feelings rioting through the silence of the small room.

Dean can't help it. He moves closer, and when Cas doesn't pull away Dean rolls onto his side, sliding his palm smoothly over Castiel's scrub-clad chest, and sighs heavily. Relief washes over him, and he moves closer, pressing to Castiel's side until the angel's shoulder is nestled into his chest. Dean presses his face into Castiel shoulder and collarbone. He can almost believe this is real, that Cas is back for good. That they will be what they were.

Almost.

But there is a tinge of dread inside him, at how different Castiel feels. At the fact that the angel won't let him in, won't let him use the bond they have. Which feels like being told that from now on he can only breathe in for the rest of his life.

Dean clings to the angel, his heart sickening with the recognition of everything that is incongruous with how he remembers it - Cas isn't lax and soft and accepting, he is stiff; he doesn't wrap himself around Dean, but lies still, allowing himself to be held, but not reciprocating; Cas doesn't smile, his eyes don't soften or spark with Dean's affection, his face stays stone impassive, his eyes sharp and staring up at the ceiling.

It isn't the same. He isn't the same.

Dean is ashamed to need the angel so much that he doesn't even care. He needs it too much. He wraps himself around Castiel, clutching his body, nuzzling his face into Castiel's chest.

He smells the same, and that at least gives Dean hope.

It takes mere moments for Dean to be so exhausted he is almost asleep. He is overwhelmed, and his breathing is slow, his body heavy.

"I left you..." Dean whispers into Castiel's chest, only partially awake. "I would never have left you..." He falls to sleep nearly instantly after the words are out.

When Castiel is certain Dean is not awake to see, he lets his own eyes close, his guard crumbling, expression pained as he touches his hand to Dean's hair, careful not to wake him. He presses his lips to Dean's hair and a trembling breath escapes him. So much is welling up inside, and not letting their bond allow Dean to receive it, keeping it to himself all feels so crushing. And he shouldn't even be here, but god forgive him he can't leave Dean's side, can't be without him for a moment longer now that he's got him back.

Castiel takes a deep, calming breath.

Castiel withdraws his hand from Dean's hair, and leans back against the pillow. He doesn't allow himself to touch Dean further. He doesn't allow himself to hold him. He doesn't allow himself to feel the relief that's crawling into his heart at the touch of Dean's skin on his own, the tangible proof that they are together again. Castiel makes his face blank, he doesn't allow himself to wince at the pain of having been without him or smile at the joy of having found him again.

And he does this for both of their sakes.

He lays, stone still, avoiding any contact that isn't what Dean has forced on him. He will stay because Dean needs it. He will not move until Dean wakes the next morning.

* * *

_Please Review._


	21. Chapter 21

_Wow, that last chapter was rife with mistakes! Shame to me and my keyboard! It's kind of embarrassing. Hopefully I read through this one with a little more concern for grammar._

_Thank you guys so much for the reviews on the last chapter. _

_You are the wind beneath my wings._

_ ...Too much? Sorry._

* * *

Chapter Twenty One

There is a hot poker in Castiel's brain whenever he touches him. The feeling of Dean's skin against his own, is a pleasure that goes hand in hand with punishment. His hard-wiring, the part of his brain that is programmed strictly Heavenly Host, burns hot and unbearable, an excruciating judgement, every time Castiel runs his hands over the bared skin of Dean's forearm. And every time he tips his head up off the pillow, to better smell Dean's hair. Every time he shifts just slightly to revel in the weight of Dean's body, asleep against him.

First pleasure, and overwhelming relief.

Then punishment. That searing pull, like a red-hot fishhook tugging in his brain tissue. The righteous burn through his borrowed form, as if threatening to overpower him until he is forced to leave Jimmy Novak an empty vessel and return to the ranks of Heaven to remember his true purpose. A punishment, yes, but also a threat.

He'd felt this when he'd betrayed Heaven to fight Michael and Lucifer. But then his angelic power was weakening and thus his connection to Heaven, therefore this pain had receded and disappeared with the rest of his connection to the Host. It had never had the opportunity to get this bad.

It is disorienting. Dizzying. Enough to make him reconsider what, in Purgatory, he thought he knew for certain. That he and Dean fit perfectly, that they were _right_. It is strong enough to make him doubt the honesty and pleasure of what he and Dean had become. And somewhere in his tortured mind he knows, but cannot entirely grasp, that he is being re-conditioned by Heaven.

If he is to remain infatuated with Dean, he is to be punished. When he looks too long at the man, he is punished. When he touches him with reverent intent, he is punished. When Dean curls up to him at night, silently begging for Castiel to return the affection, he is punished for wanting to do so. When Heaven calls, and he refuses to come again and again, day after day, in favor of staying by Dean's side, he is punished.

In Purgatory, being without Dean was killing him.

On Earth, being with Dean is killing him faster.

And he can have no relief. He won't ever be able to give himself over to either just Heaven, or just Dean. Because Heaven is inside his head poking around, and Dean is inside his very grace. He can never leave Dean. His is will stronger than his pain. Because Dean needs him.

Dean will go nowhere without him, is hopelessly magnetized to him; the man thinks he will die without him, and Castiel can feel it. Castiel is the first thing he looks for when he wakes, and the last thing he needs to see before he sleeps. And every time Castiel feels joy at this fact, he is punished.

But he stays despite the punishment. For as painful as Heaven's punishment is, Castiel knows somewhere deep and unrelenting within himself, that to leave Dean, would hurt so much worse. So he stays. And when Dean's eyes open at first light, and he lets out a relieved breath as his sparkling green eyes meet Castiel's own troubled blue, he feels joy nonetheless.

* * *

The first night Castiel returned was the first time Dean has slept through the night since his escape from Purgatory. Now he sleeps every night. Because Cas is always there, and Dean is relearning how to feel safe, how to rest through the night like a human needs.

Mornings are always strange, but a time that Dean loves. The noise of the world is dulled in the early morning, and the sky is grayish blue - not quite light, but teasing, just dark and foggy enough to be reminiscent of Purgatory. In the early morning he and Castiel lay together, and Dean is warm and comfortable and thankful they're alone. During the light of day the normalcy of the world around them is bizarre to Dean still, but it feels so good to have the angel here before it dawns.

In these morning hours, hidden away in the bedroom, the world is quiet again and Dean breathes deeply trying to soak up the tentative contentment between himself and the angel. He has that distinctly _morning_ feeling, like he's been asleep for hours, is rested fully, and now it's time to wake. He can feel the air in the room - warm, stifling and still. But somehow comfortably claustrophobic, like when he and Castiel used to sleep in tight spaces together in the muggy forrest. He breathes deeply, smelling Cas on the pillow, and just with that lazy cat-like stretch and singular expanding of his ribcage he can tell - he doesn't hurt so much anymore. He feels at ease. Relieved, all because Castiel is here.

In this moment, he can pretend.

He reaches out instinctively across the sheets. But his hands find nothing but cheap, chilled cotton. Dean's eyes snap open, and he's sitting up before he's even fully awake, his head buzzing. His heart is pounding in his chest and his eyes dart around, thankfully landing on the sight of Castiel sitting stiffly, silently observant, in the chair beside the bed. A sentinel at guard.

Dean exhales, heavily relieved. Even if it doesn't really make sense that Castiel is not still lying beside him. Why would he stray even an inch, when he doesn't have to? when they could be lying and stretching and breathing deep _together_?

Dean looks at the angel, squinting, trying to understand. But he can think of no reason why Castiel would have pulled away from him.

The mere fact that Dean seems to find Castiel's distance incomprehensible makes Castiel's chest burn with the need to tell Dean the truth - that he doesn't want to, and that it is just as strange for him, to be separate from Dean, when he could so easily be close to him. But he is punished swiftly for the thought, and he tries to ignore the furrow of Dean's brow as he sees him wince from it. But his green eyes are so searching, so familiar, and Castiel longs with everything he has to let it all go, to tell him the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

Castiel stands and Dean watches him move, feeling somewhat ill at ease due to his inability to read Castiel's intentions thanks to Castiel having wedged some sort of wall between them, severing their bond. He knows the angel isn't right. He wants more than anything to be allowed to know what he thinks, what he feels, all of it.

Castiel can feel Dean's soul reaching. His grace tugs painfully with the knowledge, but Castiel does not yield. Every time he wants to, he is punished. So he resists.

However, in that moment the urge to touch Dean is simply too much. Castiel reaches out before he knows what he's doing, carding his fingers through Dean's short hair and Dean's eyes close as he leans into the touch. Castiel's fingers fist in Dean's hair, a solid, demanding touch, but still softly affectionate in its way.

That familiar mix of give and demand, harsh and soft.

Dean's eyes open, and Castiel sees that they are clear and sparkling with rapt attention. An oddity theses days, when Dean most often seems half-lost in his thoughts all the while. Castiel's hand slides down Dean's temple, down his cheek, cupping his face so that his thumb brushes against Dean's bottom lip. Castiel's chest grows hot and tight, the burning in his head starting to throb in a way that he knows will result in a day-long ache. But he ignores it as best he can, because Dean's eyes look sharp and intent and so green like Castiel knows they haven't looked for a long time.

He sees the hunter awaken in the man, the predator - all mischief and pleasure and Purgatory. Castiel draws away suddenly, and he clears his throat, looking away.

He knows better. No matter how much he longs to do these things, he can't. He cannot allow that of himself. Guilt is spreading already.

Dean can feel him pulling away. He grips Castiel's arm, pulls him by the sleeve down to the bed, arranging them like they used to sleep in their earthen hovels - face to face, knees knocking together, pressed close so as to fit into a small space. Castiel barely comes willingly, resistant to being pulled so close to Dean, but allowing it anyway. He is stiff and it is apparent to Dean that this act is somehow uncomfortable, which doesn't make sense to the man, who can't think of anything that feels more natural.

Dean hopes that simply reintroducing Cas to this, to the way it was, will _make_ it the way it was. He hopes that laying with Castiel and sharing his feelings without words and sticking by his side will be enough to show the angel how they are supposed to be.

Like this. An invincible unit. Two parts of one whole.

He tries every day, to touch him in some small way, to remind him of how they should be. But Castiel is always reluctant. He knows how they are _supposed_ to be. He knows exactly how they are supposed to be. And it is killing him. He knows they are supposed to be amicable comrades in the war against evil, nothing more. He knows that Dean is his charge, he is the man's protector, Heaven's insurance that the man's role in destiny is not cut short. He knows that he is meant to keep his distance, maintain objectivity. Now that he is back in the world, the weight and responsibility all comes flooding back and he can't stop knowing what he is _supposed_ to be. It is burned into the hard-wiring of his pre-cognizant existence - objectivity, inhumanity, the service of Heaven over all, and the greater good.

No lust. No distractions. No humanity.

And Dean is all of that. Inextricably now. Dean is both his purpose, and the corruption of it. And Castiel has allowed them both to become lost in it.

He indulges Dean in staying close, in laying here as though it were Purgatory, nestled together as though it were necessity.

But it isn't. It isn't a necessity anymore. Maybe this, getting so close, maybe it never was.

Another mistake. Another debt owed to a man he never wanted to do wrong by.

Castiel indulges Dean now because he can't bear not to. And because he needs to buy time, to untangle everything in his mind. He's been confused far too often in the past few years, and he is tired of being turned around. What he knows without a doubt about his purpose in this universe has been broken down and rebuilt so many times that his compass is spinning out of control.

Soldier.

Rebel.

God.

Mortal.

Martyr.

Pacifist.

Defender.

Brother. Friend. Lover.

In the depths of him, he longs more than anything for the simplicity of the existence he had with Dean in Purgatory. And that too, confuses him. And worse, it wracks him with guilt.

Everything he felt about Dean was so simple then. Honest and true.

But now, it feels twisted and wrong. Yet he still wants it. And that is a shame that he can only hope to hide, because he definitely won't be able to overcome.

* * *

Dean will not go anywhere without Castiel at his side.

He can't stand the terrible feeling of doubt that accompanies the angel being out of eyeshot - the feeling that he is gone again, that Dean is all alone, a piece of himself gone too. He feels clearer when Castiel is here, like he can think again. Despite the erratic spikes of pain and almost unbearable rejection that come when his soul reaches out and meets nothing but Castiel's refusal.

Their defunct bond leaves Dean momentarily dazed every time he reaches for the angel on instinct - like the feeling of knowing the there is another step in the staircase, only to find yourself dizzied by the suddenness of the floor under your feet.

But still, having him is infinitely better than the alternative. Dean shudders when he remembers that time, not so long ago, without the angel. It fuels him on despite the pain, to keep reaching. No matter how many times he is denied.

* * *

Castiel cannot go anywhere without Dean.

Dean needs him to be there, like he needs to breathe. Utterly dependent on the angel's presence. Dean never says so, but some things Castiel still knows, without having to read his mind.

And Castiel needs him equally, if not as blatantly. He can hide from Sam and Dean how hopelessly weak, how utterly lost he feels when he is away from the man. Just the thought of it is enough to keep his eyes darting in Dean's direction every few moments, just to assure himself that Dean is still there, that he is safe. So he never leaves his side. He keeps him close.

And it is so tempting...

It is strange to be back in the world, where personal space and other human customs are a concern again. Where Heaven and its unrelenting structure is enforced upon him. For forever, neither the rules of Heaven or Humanity were of any concern to him. He had no need for knowledge of civility or propriety. Rank and file. But now he's back in the world, where throwing Dean down on the bed and sitting atop him just to watch him squirm, or as a method of demanding he go to bed and finally get some rest, are no longer appropriate.

Castiel knows he can't do that sort of thing here. Not here. Not where any of his brothers could sense it, where Heaven's wrath was not only possible, but likely, where Sam would look at him as though he was malfunctioning. And all of it would come back on Dean.

Castiel will fight these cruel urges, for as long as he has to. Soon enough Dean will get better, and Castiel will keep his distance no matter how much it hurts.

* * *

Sam gives Dean and Cas a wide berth.

Especially after that first day of Castiel's return, when Castiel held a kitchen knife to Sam's throat when the younger brother moved too quickly in Dean's direction.

Sam tried not to blame him. Obviously he's not right yet - if he was then instinct would have reminded him that he doesn't need a kitchen knife to kill a mortal man. Though Sam is extremely glad it slipped the angel's mind.

Sam forgave him quickly and easily. It had taken Dean a few days to get his head out of Monsterland too. And at least Castiel had the decency to look embarrassed at his behavior when Dean pulled him away, telling him with a look that his aggression was appreciated, but not necessary.

Sam knows that he should have been angrier, more concerned for their safety. But he lets the incident go. He is hoping that reuniting Cas and Dean, will fix them somehow. He is out of other options.

And Dean does seem better in some ways - more awake, more present. Less glazed over, staring into the abyss. Less heartbroken and tortured by the angel's absence and the not knowing if he was alive or dead. Dean is relieved. And Sam is glad for it.

But it doesn't take long for him to start to worry anew, because Dean isn't getting better as quickly as he'd hoped, and though he's not staring emptily at the walls anymore, he is doing other things that make Sam nervous...

Dean erupts sometimes, out of the blue it seems. A frustration he's gone too long without voicing boils over until he can do nothing but slam drawers shut, and growl under his breath, and pace around lividly as though he doesn't know what to do with himself, stalking the halls with his arms folded tight against his chest. And push Sam away, literally.

Sam is doing everything he can to not let it show how much it all scares him. He looks to Castiel for help, for explanation. But the angel is solely focused on Dean to the point that he is sometimes unreachable. He looks at Sam as though he doesn't comprehend him. As if the only thing he understands is Dean, but he is not at liberty to share his insight. Which, of course, is endlessly frustrating to the younger Winchester, who now has _two_ uncommunicative powder kegs on his hands.

Throughout his childhood, Sam always resented feeling like he was the only _normal_ one. _He_ wanted to have a real home, and go to school, and play soccer. His dad, his brother, they were both all about the hunt. And living your life for the purpose of killing things normal people didn't even have to know about was ridiculous and bizarre to Sam, who just wanted them to be _regular_. But as he got older, he realized he was odd too. Maybe more than any of them. A freak. And while it was a similarly frustrating struggle, he almost longs for those days now. Now that he is the only normal one again. Because then, he still had Dean.

Now, all Sam can do is be there for him, whilst somehow still giving him space.

He wants his brother back. He wants Cas to be the angel he would recognize. He wants not to feel like he's all god damned alone in the fight again.


	22. Chapter 22

_Sorry for any mistakes. I'm posting this really quickly. Didn't get to spend as much time on it as I would have liked, so I hope it's ok._

_Also, I appear to be angst-ing my readers to death. Well hold on people, cause we're not done yet..._

* * *

Chapter Twenty Two

Dean isn't right.

It is becoming more apparent every day. Castiel thought maybe a week or two together laying in the same bed, riding in the car, staying mostly shoulder to shoulder and barely straying ten feet would help put Dean right. He thought it would put both of them right. A transition period, back in the real world. Like a rehab.

But it's not working.

He wants Dean more than ever, and Dean still isn't himself. The man is edgy and needy and his words, rare though they are, come out convoluted and frustrated.

Castiel is at a loss to put him right. But he knows he must. Castiel's mission now is to return Dean to the soldier he used to be, before Castiel ruined him. _He_ unleashed Purgatory, it's _his_ fault Dean ended up there, _he_ lost his control and touched Dean and melded them together...

And now look at him, utterly scarred and barely functioning.

Castiel hates himself when he looks at the righteous man and sees the sum of all his own sins and misjudgments. Dean is paying for _his_ arrogance. And Castiel can't bear for Dean to suffer because of him, even if it means denying himself his own happiness. He deserves that anyway. He deserves Heaven's punishment.

It should have been Purgatory, but he turned his penance into pleasure. He is so twisted, so fallen, so vein and lowly at this point, that even Purgatory was nothing but another avenue for his sin and selfishness. His intended penance nothing but another opportunity to screw things up further. And now Dean was paying the price with him.

He has to get it right this time. He has to deny himself, to suffer, in order to pay for what he's done. That is how he will save Dean, and himself.

* * *

When everything is too confusing, and it usually is, Dean focuses on Cas.

He focuses on the set of his brow, the graceful movement of his pale hands, the shape of his body obscured by his long coat.

It is a calming familiarity in the not uncommon moments where he has no idea where he is, how he got there, but sees Sam, hears his voice distantly, and knows he should know. How long has he been in this room? How long have he and Sam been talking?

It gets like that. He gets up to go to his bedroom, and can't remember how to get there. His thoughts run around, scattered and frantic, and he asks Sam when Dad is coming home, only to see the expression on his little brother's face and remember - Dad doesn't come home anymore.

Everything is hard to get a handle on.

But Castiel, Dean understands. The way he moves, the way he thinks, the way he smells, the way Dean feels when he is near - Cas makes sense.

When things are too much, he longs to touch Castiel, because he knows it is the only thing that will feel right. The only thing that makes sense.

But Castiel denies him.

Dean reasons that he must be nervous, that maybe he's afraid of getting in trouble... but it seems unimportant to Dean, the idea of consequences in regards to this. So he keeps trying.

And Castiel keeps drawing away.

Soft touches and gentle holds are always abruptly aborted. And Dean wonders if he's being too soft. If the lack of conflict and challenge is confusing to Cas. Perhaps... Their affection had always been argumentative in nature, especially when they were in Purgatory.

So Dean adapts.

Dean shoves Castiel back against the wall, reaches down and grips Castiel through his pants roughly, watching the angel's face. The unexpected and aggressive nature of the touch causes the desired reaction in Castiel, for only a flash, but Dean sees it - that glint in his eye, that obvious want to feel. Castiel wavers for a fraction of a moment, before gripping Dean's wrist mercilessly and pulling his hand away, despite the man's heart-wrenching resistance.

Dean looks at him questioning, then embarrassed, then of course, angry. He pulls his hand from Castiel's roughly and stalks away.

* * *

Dean doesn't stay mad for long. He tries again. He moves to nuzzle his face to Castiel's neck, a second nature, an instinct so ingrained now that he doesn't even think about it, like you don't think about scratching an itch, or taking a step. But when he moves in close to the crook of the angel's neck, millimeters from the warmth of his skin, he is held back suddenly. And he looks down, confused to see Castiel's hand flat against his chest.

Dean looks up, met with an apologetic look from the angel.

He's being told _No_, and it is so strange, that he doesn't know what to do. So he draws away slowly, feeling like he might cry, and doesn't meet the angel's eyes again for a long time.

* * *

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel from behind, pulling him close to his own chest. He feels the angel stiffen, but ignores it. This is so right. He lets his lips fall to Castiel's trench-clad shoulder, and he breathes deep, his lips smiling against the fabric. He nuzzles to Castiel's neck, his stubble scraping, and he knows Castiel will shiver at the feeling. He kisses the angel's neck, and feels him try to move away. So Dean locks his arms tightly around Castiel's waist, grabbing his own wrist in his hand, trying to force Castiel to stay.

But it is useless.

A moment later his arms are empty and he nearly topples forward, as Castiel is gone.

He looks up, disoriented, to see Castiel standing five feet away, looking at the floor with obvious discomfort.

Dean takes a step toward him, but Castiel immediately answers with a step back. And so it is that Dean is here, stuck with Castiel like magnets that just can't touch, no matter how much you try to force them together.

* * *

He keeps forgetting that this happens.

Now, once again, Castiel is standing a room's length away. Looking down at the floor as he pretends to be arranging their spell-spices. And Dean is left standing there, where they had just moments ago been standing _together_, looking at the angel, completely flummoxed.

He'd touched him. Dean had touched Castiel in the simplest way, holding onto his arm lightly. And suddenly the angel has forced a room's worth of distance between them, and Dean feels empty.

He keeps forgetting that this happens.

He simply sees Castiel, knows what he should do, and does it. Holds him. Touches him. Moves close to kiss him.

But Castiel always moves away, always rejects him, and Dean never remembers that until it's happened again.

* * *

Castiel can see that Dean is pushing him. Just like he pushed him in Purgatory - tease further, run faster, hit harder. Like they teased each other.

But they're not in Purgatory anymore. Castiel tries to remind him, keeping his distance when Dean wants to be close, calmly moving Dean's hands from his body when they find their way to Cas' hips, pulling back just as Dean is about to kiss him, sidestepping when Dean stands too close.

And it feels like a horrible falsehood. because it was him who had forced Dean into their first kiss in Purgatory. It was him who wanted it to mean more. To be more intimate. And now he denies Dean that which he offered first, what the man already _knows_ him to want. And he does so with an impassive face, and no explanation.

Castiel can feel Dean floundering, waiting for that moment when Castiel will finally break and give in to his desires, just like before. It is a moment that Castiel knows can't ever come.

* * *

Dean is buzzing tonight. He's been tired for days - scattered, quiet. But tonight he feels aggressive. He is still disoriented, the status quo now, but he feels oddly strong and contrary. It's a feeling he likes, because it reminds him of Purgatory. The fighting, the wrestling, the fearlessness.

Castiel seems oblivious to the change of his mood, so Dean wants to use that to his advantage. He crowds close to the angel, a not unusual behavior, but this time when Castiel looks to Dean's face he is met with hard, mischievous eyes. And Dean smirks when he sees how unexpected it is.

Dean shoves Castiel hard, and though the angel sees it coming and is fully capable of either dodging or simply motionlessly enduring the act, Castiel allows Dean's hit to effect him as it would a human. He falls backward onto the bed, bouncing into a sit, the old mattress' coils shrieking in protest. Dean stands before him a moment, considering, as though Castiel is at his mercy. Something dangerous coils and burns in Castiel's gut, and he looks away from the man, suddenly so reminiscent of the way he was in Purgatory. Dean comes forward, and straddles Castiel's lap, the motion easy and instinctual.

Castiel knows he should push him away. He knows he should simply stand up and refuse him... But the feeling of Dean, so close, his body so familiarly heavy and strong and tangible... His resolve shakes. His brain burns torturously, but he just can't abide.

Dean teases him, coming forward and brushing the tip of his nose against Castiel's own, as well as his cheeks and neck. He can feel Cas' heart beating harder, see his jaw clench.

But when he moves his lips to Cas', the angel moves away. Not harshly, but still, the subtle avoidance, the leaning away, it is a rejection nonetheless. And each time Dean tries it is the same - Castiel pulls back, or turns his head to the side, always ensuring that their lips never touch. His own closed in a tight line.

But Dean isn't so easily deterred, despite how it hurts to be told No. He brushes his dry, parted lips across Castiel's forehead, into his hair when the angel dips his head down to avoid Dean's kiss, and over the side of his face, up into his sideburn, against the shell of his ear.

He can feel Castiel's breath come out as a tremble against his throat and it fuels him on.

Dean reaches down and touches Castiel through his scrub pants, rubbing mercilessly - Castiel draws a sharp breath before his iron-grip forces Dean's hand away. He lets Dean's wrist go, but the man only returns his hand to Castiel's groin immediately upon being released and the angel simply forces it away again.

Frustrated, Dean pulls his hand from Castiel's grip (the angel letting him) and fists it hard in Castiel's hair, wrenching his head back.

Castiel allows it, but his eyes show no concern, no surprise, none of the flair of desire for submission and Dean wants to scream. He brings his other hand to the base of Castiel's throat, squeezing. When Castiel refuses to react, Dean sets his lips and teeth to the angel's pulse point. He bites unforgivingly, sweeping over the bite with his tongue in the way he knows makes Castiel shiver.

Castiel finally reacts - suddenly the angel is extracting himself from Dean's grip, shoving the arm at his throat, and by _, his chest away. In the same movement he is holding Dean's wrists in his inhuman grip. Dean struggles against him growling in furious protest, pulling and thrashing like an angry child, flashing his teeth like a wolf, but Castiel is too strong to be effected let alone beat.

After a few minutes of futile resistance, during which Castiel's face remains detachedly angry, Dean finally stops. His shoulders sag in defeat and all at once he goes limp against Castiel's hold.

But Castiel does not release him. And he doesn't push Dean away in punishment. Dean can't possibly know it, but in that moment with Dean such a hopeless weight on his lap, Castiel simply can't bear to stop holding onto him. All this fighting, all this saying no, and he can't even finish the job by pushing him away.

He is weak, and he hates himself for it.

Dean sighs, resigned, his head ducking. Slowly he falls forward, as if collapsing without strength, and rests his body fully against Castiel's, chest to chest, his forehead dropping onto Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel can feel, for only a fraction of a moment, a searing hurt and longing coming from the man, before he snaps the wall back up into place. He hadn't realized he'd allowed it to wane. And now he feels guilty again, knowing so certainly and so intimately what Dean feels - what Dean wants, what he himself wants, and what they cannot possibly have.

Castiel finally releases Dean's wrists, setting the man's arms down gently at his sides, where they hang as if numb and useless. He lets his own arms come down to rest against Dean's thighs, his hands holding lightly at the man's hips. And Castiel simply sits, and feels Dean's weight against him, warm and limp. Entirely trusting, not a defensive bone in his body. His breath is ghosting warmly against Castiel's throat.

Dean stays still, hoping that he'll be given this moment, a blissful much-needed reprieve from the torturous distance between them. And he takes what he can get.

They stay like this for a long time.

Finally, when Dean's breath slows to the point where Castiel knows he will be asleep soon, Castiel stands, keeping Dean in his arms, nestled against his body, lifting him as if he weighed nothing, and deposits him gently on the bed.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, feeling pressure build in his throat, tightening in his chest as a result of this cared-for feeling that he hasn't experienced since he was a very young boy.

Before Dean is even fully out of Castiel's hold the man is turning away from the angel. Turning his back to him. Hiding from him. Castiel stands there and watches Dean retreat from him, unable to hide the expression on his face of complete sorrow. Not needing to anyway, because Dean is angled away from him, face to the wall, curling up as if he is trying to be as small as possible.

Castiel stays and watches him as he falls asleep. The weight of his obvious affection for this man becoming heavier every moment. The punishment for it becoming unbearable.

And yet, in that moment, watching Dean's shoulder's shift with every shallow breath, he starts to feel something new... a kind of irritation. An anger, at the punishing burn in his head, and an anger at Heaven for putting it there. He feels an inkling of injustice in it. He knows he deserves punishment. He knows he should leave Dean be, that he cannot entertain the idea of them being like they were. But still, there's that new nagging frustration in him.

Then all at once he is ashamed of his arrogance - with everything that has happened, how can he still think he's is better than Heaven? That he knows better? What right does he have to be irritated by what he deserves, by Heaven's will?

_Mighty Castiel, so infinitely better than everything - his brothers, his superiors, his job, Heaven's will. So selfish. Is there anyone he isn't he willing to sacrifice for his own purposes?_

Castiel feels chastened at the thought. Ashamed. But still, there's something there inside him, deep in the Purgatory-altered, darkest parts of him, that just wants to say...

_Fuck 'em._ And climb into bed with Dean.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

Castiel fears he is forever changed. No, he _knows_ it. He can never be the same. Not since the first time their lips touched, lying in the dirt by the fire, rutting together. It is impossible for him to go back to the way he was. He knows this now. No matter how he is punished, Heaven has no hope of undoing what he has done to himself. He finally sees that.

His very essence is inextricably linked to Dean's. This mortal man - a broken, fleshy thing with a beating heart and numbered days. This _thing_ a large number of his brothers consider to be no better than an animal, akin to a monkey - a _creature_. Slow. Dumb. Weak. Insignificant. What then is Castiel, being Host of Heaven and hopelessly attached to one?

And not like a pet. Not like an experiment or brief fascination for amusement or even an apparatus of pleasure. Though he has had that, and he does cherish it. What is an _angel_, that cannot overcome one brief dalliance with a _man_?

An angel with an infatuation... it is laughable. And also, reprehensible to those above him. He doesn't desire to disgrace himself any further than he has already, but... he cannot seem to leave. He simply cannot let Dean be. He is transformed by his proximity to him.

Castiel knows he has changed, in large part, because of his needs. Lusts. Their strength, their power over him is... terrifying. Stronger now, than his punishment. When he looks at Dean he thinks terrible, unchaste, impure things. But he doesn't blush and look away as he might have in the past. He doesn't chide himself, and allow himself to be tortured by Heaven's searing shame prodding at his insides. He indulges his mind, if not his body, and he allows himself to imagine.

He imagines Dean's dick hard between his lips, he imagines running his tongue into the groove between the shaft and the head, and the salty tip, and flicking his tongue across the slit. He spends long, breathless moments thinking about the sounds that Dean would make, and the feeling of Dean's hand gripping his hair.

He imagines forcing Dean's mouth onto his own cock, watching him just take it, and want it rough; watching it not occur to Dean to complain, his eyebrows furrowed and set in single-minded concentration.

And he imagines something darker, more secret. Something that he knows makes Dean swallow and draw in a shallow breath when he can feel Castiel imagine it through the cracks in the wall between them. Castiel imagines Dean naked, lying on his bed, or the floor, the couch, the car, even the yellow grass in the back yard... and Castiel himself there with him. A blur of naked limbs and warm, sweaty plains of skin.

But Castiel's wants are not just lusty in nature. There are simpler ones, just as strong, if not as basely sexual. He wants to touch, simply and without the intent to take it further. He wants to trail his fingers over Dean's lips, his knuckles, the scar on his ribs from when he took a blade-swipe in favor of keeping Castiel safe. And Castiel wants to hold him. He wants to be held. For long pointless hours that have no end and no hurry. And God, does he just want to smile. He and Dean had never smiled so much as when they were alone together in that other hell-adjacent world. And it was... It was wonderful. Castiel felt light and... happy there. And it's hard to come to grips with because Castiel is only now realizing that... he's never been happy before.

He wants all of this with equal if not greater ferocity than any of the outright sexual desires. He wants the togetherness.

Every day that passes without it feels like a barb in Castiel's side, shoving deeper and deeper. Putting a wall between them the way he has is torturously painful. So much so that he can't help but wonder if Dean is suffering the same. He feels barbs in his gut, drops of acid on his skin. As an angel, he is extremely capable of managing pain. But this pain is different. He has no control over it, and it is a new and terrifying sensation born of his own mangled grace. If he moves too far from Dean for too long, his physical form aches severely, and even when he frees himself of his borrowed body, the pain lingers. Sometimes it is even sharper, his grace screaming out for completion. Those times, when Castiel returns to Dean he nearly collapses in relief at being back in his presence, his pain mostly assuaged, the barbed pull in his gut loosened. Proximity to Dean gives him a liquid heat rushing through him to the core.

Of all the times Castiel has doubted in the past few years, nothing feels quite as torturous as the inkling growing inside of him now. Purgatory is seizing up.

The part of him that was so free there, so bold and independent of Heaven screams at him, thrashing and clawing and desperately trying to sway Castiel into dropping that wall. For now, Castiel is winning this fight against the baser form of himself. But he knows how strong that version of him is. And it is terrifying to think, even for a moment, that he kind of wants Purgatory to win...

But then he sees Dean, struggling to remember what he was just doing, looking hunched and mad, and he holds back for another day. And Purgatory is quiet inside of him, even _it_ seeing that restoring Dean's well-being, is most important.

Castiel must keep his resolve. Dean means too much for him to just let the man drown himself in Purgatory. And whatever they have, blissful as it may have been for Castiel, was just desperate collateral damage of Purgatory that will keep Dean lost there, and keep him from coming back to himself. There is no way that giving in can help Dean now - it wouldn't make sense, it would be too perfect.

There is no salvation for Castiel. He is permanently changed, he knows this now.

But he wants more than anything, more than the sum of all his desires, for Dean to get well. And while that is still possible, he will never give up.

* * *

Every moment feels like the right moment for the distance between them to end, Dean thinks as he watches Castiel read through an ancient text. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pale hands skating over the dry pages absently. It is strange to see him so lacking the blood and dirt and sweat that he'd grown accustomed to seeing on the angel's skin. Despite the lack of grime, he looks beautiful and familiar - like maybe he is _his_ Cas again. But he never spares Dean a glance, and it makes him angry. Cas has no right to be handsome and so near and yet so cold.

Dean leans in, thinking that he will kiss the angel, no matter what, to prove that Cas has no right to deny him. But Castiel shoves him away.

So Dean shoves back, _hard_, sliding the book off the table angrily.

There is a tense moment of silence where they stare at each other and Castiel can feel the vibration of Dean's frustration bubbling over into rage.

"WHY WON'T YOU LET ME!" Dean yells angrily.

Castiel doesn't respond, but looks away to the side.

Dean sputters a frustrated sound, his hands jutting out to the sides and then dropping again. "You're back," he begins, clearly flummoxed. "I waited and waited and tried and tried, and _finally_ you're back. But nothing is like what it was before. Nothing here works right here. There's no time for us. And there's too much time. And it seems far away now, but, I know it's not crazy..."

Castiel stands, carefully, not wanting to set him off. "Dean, you're confused."

"I know what happened," he argues, looking for a moment, fairly solid in his conviction. But then his face goes sad and baffled, "Why won't you just say it?"

The barbs in Castiel's gut pull hard, tearing him open form the inside - or at least that is how it feels. And it takes all of his concentration, all of his angelic strength, not to doube over screaming.

Dean watches, but Castiel doesn't meet his eyes, and doesn't offer him a response. His thoughts waver and he asks quietly, "It was... it was _right_? Wasn't it?"

He is looking desperately for a confirmation that he needs more than wants. Castiel looks at him, but can't speak.

Suddenly Dean is angry again, "It was! I know it! And you're a fucking coward for not saying it!"

Castiel shakes his head sadly, the insult burning through him. He tries to keep his face impassive and calm. "You don't remember it as clearly as I do, Dean," he admits sadly. He sees an opportunity to maybe force Dean to see it differently. "You couldn't. You weren't built to exist on that plane. You can't see how things really were, how _you_ were. How different-"

"I remember," Dean argues, seething. "Don't you dare think I don't remember -"

"I know you do, to a degree," Castiel placates indulgently, as if trying to calm a child. "But it was... different, seeing you change from the outside. Dean, you were half-mad by the time you escaped-"

"No! I was not crazy! We were _not_ _crazy_ Cas! We were surviving! We were..."

"We were changing. And I was watching it happen. I was watching you loose your hold on... on _this_," he motions around the living room. "And I didn't remind you. I didn't do anything to keep you human. I... I did things to you that... I shouldn't have."

Dean's eyes dart up to his, searching.

Cas doesn't look at him, "You weren't _you_. And... and I took advantage..."

Dean shakes his head, not believing what he was hearing.

"One betrayal after another..." Castiel mutters brokenly, his head hung low.

"No," Dean grates out low and shaky. "Don't treat me like I'm the pretty girl at the asylum Cas. I'm a grown man. I know what I want. I knew what I was doing! I know who I am," he says a little too loudly. "I know who I am," he repeats, more quietly, eyes drifting downward in absent thought. When he finally comes back to himself he looks up and Castiel is watching him sadly. "Stop looking at me like that!" he commands.

"Purgatory changed you. And I didn't help you. I just..." Castiel looks as though he wishes he could fall on his own sword - all shame and heavy regret. "You are only mortal, I should have known better, I should never have..."

Castiel looks so guilty, that Dean's stomach starts to sour. Dean doesn't ask so much as state, "You regret it."

Castiel meets Dean's eyes, "Of course."

The certainty with which he agrees, it breaks something open inside Dean. Something that hurts in a way that there isn't words for. It isn't subtle.

Castiel feels it even through the wall and winces. His eyes dart to Dean's in shock, and he is pained to see the man looking blank, withdrawn, as if he has simply shut down.

Dean turns and walks silently away. He moves slowly through the house like a ghost to his bedroom, lying gingerly on his mattress.

Castiel is the only one who understands. The only one he could ever feel for again after... after everything. Because there aren't anymore pieces of him left, there isn't any more affection, any more room, for anyone else. Castiel is the only one with a piece of him so secret, so specific... Dean's never given so much of himself to anyone. Because he never gives any true part of himself to any lover. His body yes, but nothing of _himself_. Until Castiel. What they went through together in Purgatory bonded Dean to him. Further than what was ever alluded to before. Castiel and Purgatory showed Dean a side of himself that he can't stow away now. Castiel fits into every negative space Dean's got - even some of the places that used to be only for Sam, and his parents. And Dean had thought that it was the same for the angel. It certainly felt that way, in Purgatory - that they were equals, that they needed each other in the same, perhaps twisted, way. That they both hurt without the other. That whatever it was that they had, it was everything.

It was what kept Dean beating. It brought him, it makes him nauseated to think, more happiness than any love he'd ever had on Earth.

It was _everything_.

But no... Castiel, the other half of him, now looks on what they had, what they've done, as a regret. A sin. Dirty and beastly and wrong.

He's changed his mind.

But Dean hasn't. And he won't.

And he knows now, as he starts to shake against his flimsy mattress, that it is going to kill him.

* * *

Dean is worse. Sam is certain of it. He's got that look again - the heartbroken, hopeless, crumbling from the inside look. And Sam knows it's about Castiel. All of it is, somehow. Sam knows it has something to do with how distant Cas is being toward Dean. It's deliberate, Sam can see that much. So Dean must definitely be able to see that. And it's clearly doing a number on him.

He looks weak again. Tired. Like it takes all of his energy just to keep breathing. And that is terrifying to Sam. He wants to help, but he doesn't know what else to do. He tries to talk to Dean, to perk him up or force him to let out whatever it is that's upsetting him.

Sometimes Dean pretends he can't hear Sam. Sometimes he rages like an imbalanced teenager. Sometimes he looks at Sam regretfully, like he wishes he could say it, but doesn't know how.

So it all goes unsaid.

And Sam is back to square one.

* * *

Castiel is the only one who knows him completely, in the truest sense. He is the only one who understands it all. He is the other half of Dean. Him coming back, it was the most blissful feeling... It was all wrongs made right, everything he needed. Castiel here and their bond completed again - it fixed everything. Dean felt _right_.

And then Castiel snatched it away.

Now, the angel's presence is making everything worse. Dean feels so alone. More alone than when Cas was gone from him, because he had the naive comfort of assuming the angel felt the same, needed him equally, searched for him just as desperately, longed for him as hopelessly.

But it appears he was wrong.

Castiel closes himself off from Dean, denying the man what he cannot voice that he needs. At least he stays, indulges Dean. But the angel will give Dean nothing of himself. And Dean thinks there must be something very wrong with him, for missing what he and Cas were, missing damned _Purgatory_. And for being wrecked by Cas' regret.

He aches, yes, but not physically. He can tell that Castiel hurts sometimes, as if his body is in pain. But Dean doesn't hurt in his body, like Cas. Dean hurts in his head. His pain is psychological.

Dean is confused all the time, and it is immensely frustrating. Dean has always been pig-headed, confident in his own opinions.

Now he can't even remember what his fucking opinions are.

And he is groundlessly livid sometimes, so much so that he has to break something and then something else, and smash bottles and flip tables until Sam's arms are around him, holding him steady, telling him to calm down.

And then Dean comes back to himself, and he looks around at broken glass and chaos and he's shocked because he doesn't know what came over him. He always tells Sam he's sorry, and distractedly starts to clean up, picking up shards of glass with shaking fingers. And Sam always forgives him, rubbing a hand over his back or shoulder. Sam stoops beside him and starts picking up the pieces too, every time. Sam always forgives.

But it doesn't stop Dean from noticing that look in his brother's eye - that same terrified look, like he is frightened by this incarnation of Dean and is doing his best but just doesn't know how to help. It's the look that says he knows he's in over his head.

When Dean isn't angry, he's empty. He sits, for hours on end. And he thinks. Or so it looks to Sam. But really, Dean's mind is just a tired scramble. And it takes so long to untangle one single train of thought, that he could simply stare at the carpet for a half an hour before he is able to arrange whatever thought he'd had.

Sam has to remind him to eat. He has to shepherd him off to bed at night, and retrieve him from his bed late in the mornings.

Castiel is always present, but much to Sam's frustration is rarely helpful. He appears to Sam to be attempting to be of as little influence as possible, living with them as though he were just an invisible shadow. He exists as though he is trying to fade into the wallpaper, shocked and irritated every time Sam tries to involve him. And Sam can't help but be bitter over how much getting Castiel back _didn't_ solve anything.

* * *

Dean is lost again. It happens all the time, so Castiel is unsurprised to see him standing in the middle of the room, head tilted to the side, staring that the floor.

"Dean," he tries to wake him, keeping his distance.

Dean turns, and smiles widely when he sees him. And Castiel knows that smile so intimately that he wants to crack and crumble to the floor, because that is the smile Dean used to have in Purgatory, when they were alone and safe and mischievous.

Dean walks up to him easily, clearly still within his daydream, and Castiel backs away until he's against the wall. Dean leans in, nuzzling to his shoulder, and Castiel's jaw flexes and he fights the urge to pull him close.

Suddenly Dean turns around and leans back against him. He closes his eyes and feels the angel's warm body, solid and pressed up against his own. He pulls Castiel's arm around his chest, pulling tight to give the illusion of Cas holding him. And suddenly Castiel knows what is going on.

He is unsurprised when Dean's legs spread and he leans back heavily against him, rubbing back against Castiel's groin.

Castiel fights his body's response to the feeling, the memory from the woods, and refuses to allow himself to feel what he so desperately wants to.

Dean reaches for Cas' hand, pulling it around to his front and placing it over his own groin. When Castiel's hand remains fisted and uncooperative, Dean bucks forward into it. But it isn't working... Nothing is right.

All at once he is ripped from his delusion, and he remembers where he is - back in the shitty, real world where Cas is cold and distant and everything is fucking _wrong_.

He growls in frustration and pulls roughly out of Castiel's limp hold. When he gains the courage to turn around and face the angel, Castiel is staring at him blank-faced. Utterly impassive.

Dean snaps.

He grabs the bottle from the table and hurls it at the angel with all of his strength. The bottle smashes beside Castiel's head, and he doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink.

Dean screams, "WHERE ARE YOU?"

But Castiel remains unmoved.

Dean turns to storm out, but halts. Castiel watches Dean's shoulders move as he breathes heavily, trying to control himself. Dean turns around and looks at Castiel coldly. "You're a fucking coward, Castiel."

He says nothing.

"I fucking hate you."

He just barely flinches. It should be imperceptible, but to Dean it's not. "I FUCKING HATE YOU!" Dean screams, because a flinch is _something_, and he wants anything he can get.

There is a long moment of silence, where Castiel refuses to respond and Dean's mind jumps around erratically between wanting to scream, wondering why Castiel doesn't like him anymore, wanting to apologize for screaming what was so obviously untrue, wanting to kiss him, and wanting to spit venom.

Venom is easiest.

"Do you hear me? You are the worst excuse for an angel there has ever been," Dean grates out. He can see Castiel's calm wavering, "Not even Lucifer fucked up as bad as you. You let those monsters out. You killed all those people." The words feel like poison in his mouth, but he can see Castiel wince again and it's like a drug he has to have more of. "Is this a gay thing?" Dean asks mockingly. His face goes cruel and mean, "The Host can't know you're a fucking fag."

Castiel's eyebrows draw together as though he is actually thrown off. And Dean doesn't _want_ to hurt him - it's the last thing he wants. But he's so desperate for a reaction. "Sexual deviants not allowed in the army of Heaven? Huh?" Dean mocks acidly. "Because you didn't seem too concerned about it when you had my dick in your mouth."

Castiel looks down at the floor, more pained than ashamed. His facade finally breaking. And Dean just can't understand it.

"You're a fucking freak," Dean says, his voice trembling with a bizarre closeness to tears, as opposed to the rage he had only moments ago.

When Castiel looks up Dean is looking utterly wrecked. Heartbroken and pleading, eyes glassy, bottom lip twitching. But Castiel can think of no words to offer him, and it pains him so ferociously deeply to see Dean hurt.

The look on the angel's face is almost... apologetic. Again, Dean just can't understand.

"When you first got back, _you_ threw _me_ against a wall. _You_. I didn't force you. It was always as much you as me... and that's why it was perfect!" He screams the last word, his frustration at a boil. And then he blushes, as if he's just realized what he said. He takes a moment, eyes squeezed closed in the concentration it takes to keep his thoughts together, "_You_, kissed _me_," he says, as if trying to make sure that he's got it right. "Because you had to. Don't you feel that? That we just... _have_ to, or... or we'll die?"

Castiel can't take it - this has to stop. "Dean, if I could return your soul -"

"This isn't about the fucking soul!"

"It is. And if I could give it back -"

"Don't! Don't you fucking say that!" Dean screams, suddenly in a panic. He looks as though he's been slapped. It is enough to make Castiel's eyes wide and his mouth hang open slightly. Dean clutches his chest as if he's been stabbed, "Don't you fucking say that to me. _Why_... why are you trying to kill me?" he asks thinly, as if he truly believes Castiel is in fact out to destroy him, and the thought of it is blatantly painful. His eyes squeeze shut and he clutches his own chest, chanting to himself, "You wouldn't give it back, you wouldn't...You don't mean that..."

Castiel, in complete shock over Dean's reaction, steps forward - to do what, he doesn't know. But Dean runs from him, and Castiel already knows where he is going, knows he will be safe. So he lets him.

Dean throws the bathroom door open, locking it tight behind him and hurrying to the tub in a shaky panic. He climbs in and curls up on its floor, shaking. He feels it when Castiel is suddenly in the room.

He just knows, of course he does.

Castiel climbs into the tub silently beside Dean and folds himself around him, shushing the man as his panicked breathing causes him to choke and hyperventilate.

It takes a long time for Dean to stop shaking, but when he does he asks, voice oddly calm, "Am I... _wrong_? Fucked up?"

Castiel can think of nothing to say because yes, he is. But no, he isn't. Because Dean might be odd and confused, a little broken, but he is also eternally perfect, from the soul out. So Castiel doesn't know what to say.

"I'm... broken," Dean says sadly. "I must be, to miss it. I'm wrong in some way. Twisted."

Castiel holds him tighter, knowing he shouldn't.

Dean sighs in a bone-deep relief. "It's not Purgatory I miss - the constant fight and the cold and the blood and the... nothingness. I don't miss that. Not really." He says it as though he is just figuring it out. And then he says, "It's you," and Castiel feels hot barbs pulling and tearing all over him because _God, it hurts_ but he's wanted to hear it.

"It's us," Dean admits as though it is the truest thing ever spoken, "I miss the way that you and I... the way we..."

There aren't any words that Dean can find to describe it.

Dean can feel Castiel trembling, and he knows the angel has heard him, and understood. He relaxes into his hold sadly, knowing he may never get this again. And he simply listens to Castiel breathe, feels him trembling so hard, feels the angel hold onto him desperately, as if it were Dean who were keeping him at arm's length, and not the other way around.

Without their bond Dean can't understand Castiel, except to know that they have reached a breaking point.

* * *

_We're in a dark place, I know. And that chapter was Hella-long. But FUCKING FINALLY we're gearing up._

_So sorry for the angst-a-palooza - I got a little stuck in a rut there for awhile, and tortured your with multiple chapters containing nothing but _feelings_. Ew. But it felt necessary. And I am back in the fucking zone now!_

_Stick with me..._


	24. Chapter 24

_A) Thanks so much for the reviews and follows! You lovely people are harbingers of happiness and joy, soaring through the internet!_

_B) **HINTS OF SPOILERS so skip ahead to the chapter if you haven't seen the recent episode** - sorry, for the jarring all caps._

_But I wanted to warn people before I say... I am stupid-obsessed with this past weeks episode. _

_And I would like to say also, that it is just like Supernatural to have me hate a character all the way from their inception, for _years_, and then reel me in and make me like said character, finally, only to be crushed when said character is killed. They manipulate me! They're so good at it! She called him her unicorn... *sigh* __That is weirdly beautiful..._

_(ok, **SPOILER OVER!**)_

_Enough fangirling. I apologize for the wait between chapters. As you know, I am finicky with any sort of schedule._

_I really hope this meets your satisfaction quota per chapter despite it brevity. Reviews are always appreciated to let me know how I'm doing and, you know, if you're still on board the SS CrazyPants with me and this fic. _

_As a reward for reviewing, I will email each and every one of you hi-resolution scans of those naked Misha Collins pictures I keep under my bed..._

_(Asking where I acquired said pictures immediately invalidates your claim to said reward.)_

* * *

Chapter Twenty Four

The decision is made. He ought to just get it over with. But as he stands there, watching Dean sleep the unburdened sleep of one who is utterly exhausted and believes their protector will stay, he has doubts. If leaving Dean for moments is painful, Castiel dreads to think what a complete re-submergence into Heaven will do to him.

Regardless, the decision is made.

They cannot go on like this. And Castiel cannot continue to evade punishment for his crimes in Heaven by avoiding his home and brethren. He owes so much to so many. And he is doing Dean no favors by lingering here. He simply cannot withstand this - their shared suffering, denying himself this man now that he's almost truly had him. He isn't strong enough. Whatever connection they have, forged against the laws of nature and Heaven, is killing them both.

His return to Heaven will save them from the suffering of having to see one another, having to be so damn close, and never close enough. Without him, Dean may have a chance. It has to be all or nothing - no more hanging around, just distantly enough to drive them both to shambles.

He tells himself it is right, but Castiel knows in his heart of hearts, that it is a coward's retreat. Leaving without a word. Leaving him alone...

Of course, he will have Sam. Sam will care for him. Dean will be fine.

Dean will be fine...

Castiel feels something clench inside of him, like a vice around his guts.

Castiel prays he is gone long enough, hidden away long enough, that when he finally musters the courage to return to Earth...the man Dean Winchester will be long gone. Centuries dead, at least. And then he can pretend never to have known him. He can pretend that he is a good angel, that he never loved the vessel of Archangel Michael. And Dean will have lived what Castiel hopes will be a long human life without this torture.

It is the best way.

Or maybe it isn't, but Castiel cannot stomach anything else. He touches Dean's face lightly, ensuring his sleep, and then he leans down and presses a kiss to the man's lips. He opens their bond just wide enough, a crack really, to feel what wonderful, terrible, complicated things even Dean's resting mind thinks of him. It is just one last taste of what they have before he must forget it forever. He keeps the sob that builds in his throat silent as it meets Dean's slightly open lips as a stuttered breath.

Castiel kisses Dean's top lip once more, pulls himself together, and says his silent goodbye.

* * *

Sam is terrified when he finds Dean curled up in the bathtub, clothed and groaning, holding himself tightly, eyes squeezed shut. It is as though his brother is being tortured by an invisible cattle prod - an electric current of pain coursing through him with sparks of sharper pain, and Sam can do nothing to make it stop.

His eyes dart around, but the angel who is supposed to be helping him with this is nowhere to be seen.

Dean is sickly pale, ashen; the darkness under his eyes recalls a memory of Dean on death's door, heart failing, a week to live - it's been years, and he did survive, but the thought of it still makes Sam feel shaky. And now he's seeing it again. Sam asks Dean what happened, where Cas is, and Dean convulses so that he can barely get it out.

_He's gone_.

Sam looks down at him, looks around the otherwise empty room, and silently panics. Castiel left them...

What is he supposed to do now?

* * *

It is a couple hours before Dean can stand, but eventually he does. Sam pulls him from the tub, and sits with him on the cold bathroom floor for a long time. Dean doesn't speak, and he doesn't look at his brother. He is ashamed to be falling apart, but... he knows. He just knows Castiel is gone. For real this time. Far enough away that their bond is not just severed but disappeared. Dean can feel it - the startling lack of him.

There is a nagging emptiness, as though he knows he's forgotten something, but can't remember what. Everything is sore, but he can walk. He takes Sam's help, for once, and uses his brother as a crutch, trying to force his achingly stiff limbs to cooperate. He paces, wincing and feeling like all of his bones might break...

But he doesn't stop.

And Sam never asks him why Castiel's absence has a literally physical effect on him, or why the angel left - what he said, or if he's coming back. And he never asks Dean if he's going to be ok. Dean is thankful.

...

It would be easy to lay there and never get up again. Just languish and curse everyone and everything and let Castiel find out that he'd simply died and feel horrible about it (Dean hopes). Dean tells himself he isn't above dying to spite him. But there is a voice in his head, that won't let him. His own voice, sometimes sounding so much like his Dad. But it still sounds like himself - just, the him that fought the Hook Man, that stayed throughout the Croatoan just for Sam, that escaped jail and rebuilt the car and laughed off prison and ghosts and so many other things. The voice that told him to get over himself and bury his feelings, put his shoulder down and barrel through.

_Get up. _

_Get the fuck up._

He gathers all his weary strength, and he gets up from his bed.

_Good. Now go to the kitchen. _

He walks on heavy legs, still shaking, underused in recent days, and shuffles to the kitchen.

Sam looks at him, surprised to see him up and about on his own. "Hey, Dean," he offers gently.

_Answer him. _

Dean swallows, throat clicking, eyes glued to the floor.

_Look him in the goddamn eye and say something. _

Dean takes a breath, he raises his eyes to Sam's and says, "Mornin' Sam."

His brother looks kind of shocked, but relieved in a way. Dean supposes he is relieved to see that he hasn't completely ceased to function. And now that Dean is looking at Sam, he is finally seeing him. For the first time in months. _Really looking_ at him. He's been too distracted to realize him - how present he is. How familiar. Sammy. And suddenly he realizes, that a big part of what he needs to survive, has been standing in front of him all along.

_Good_, the voice in his head says. _Good_.

"What's on the agenda," Dean's rough voice croaks out. And it doesn't sound quite right, but it's getting there, and Sam smiles a little to hear it, coming to sit down at the table beside where Dean is settling gingerly.

...

It is a couple days before Dean can really eat and sleep normally. He tries, but when he eats he feels sick. And though he feels exhausted, sleep won't come. But finally, he does both. And it feels wrong at first, it feels disgusting and taxing, and empty, but he does it. Because he has to.

He breathes. He showers. He even talks to Sam.

He functions. All without Castiel.

And he doesn't die...

Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind it occurs to him, that maybe he doesn't need Castiel to live. _Want_ him, yes. Miss him? Horribly.

Need him? In a manner of speaking, but not to survive. And it is a revelation that has the man near tears. Because there is a part of him that wants to need Cas to live, because he knows Cas would never let him die, which means that he would come back.

Castiel must have known Dean would be able to survive, and left to let him do so. Dean hates him for it. After everything... that son of a bitch just leaves without a word?

But still, there is a part of him that understands. It is that part of him that knew he had to sell his soul to save his brother. That part that knows without a doubt that sometimes, the best thing that you can do for someone, is get the fuck away from them.

He's learned that lesson the hard way.

And amidst all his doubts, all of the confusion permeating his thoughts now a days, he somehow knows that he was right about them, him and Cas.

Dean isn't sure how it happens, but somehow, in the angel's absence he becomes calmly confident that what he and Cas had was real. And he doesn't _need_ Cas to say it. He doesn't need Cas to act on it. He doesn't need any of that anymore. He believes enough for himself. It doesn't make him less sad, in fact it pretty much solidifies the tragedy of the whole thing. But it helps in a way.

Because a little seed of confidence starts to grow, confidence in his own sanity.

Dean remembers, clear as day, that last night he had with the angel - Castiel had held him, for hours. Tight and trembling, his emotions raw. Even in Purgatory, Castiel had never been the broken one - he was animalistic, he would gat angry or frustrated, injured or aroused. Utterly human at times. But even still, there was a steely way about him, a warrior's armor around him, something Dean always respected.

But that last night, laying together with everything Dean felt and the inescapable feeling that something had to change aired around them, it was the most vulnerable and broken Dean had seen him.

Dean knew then, lying in the bathtub with Cas holding onto him for dear life, that the angel isn't so steely - he is needy and desperate and pathetic too. He _feels_. He feels for _him_.

Dean hates him for being too scared to stay, but knowing that Castiel feels the same, it evens the playing field. It validates him.


	25. Chapter 25

_Thanks for the reviews! Sorry for any errors in this one - posting quickly!_

_Does anybody have Ben Edlund's number? Because I would sincerely like to pitch a Ghosts of Angel's Past episode if only to get Balthazar and Gabriel in the same room..._

* * *

Chapter Twenty Five

Heaven is like a Military School. But, without the inspired camaraderie.

Everyone is crew-cut the same, so to speak. There is pressure, unimaginable pressure, from superiors and from each other. From a father none of them have ever seen. Pressure to stay in line, to be somehow simultaneously both the same, and the best of each other. It always baffled Castiel how he could be expected to both stand out as the best of his brethren, and to not stand out from them at all. To be identical. He has never felt identical. He's blended in, gone unnoticed. But he has never been comfortable. He has had a millennium of bone-deep feeling of purpose, but still... he never felt the same as the others. And it always disconcerted him, pushed him to do better, be a better soldier, be a better son.

That was back when his concerns were small, relatively.

Back before Dean Winchester. The Michael sword - just a vessel he was meant to keep in tact. A job.

How easy everything was, before him. Castiel _believed_ then. He was good. He was one of the many, serving the great purpose and toiling for the common effort.

But the righteous man was more than a vessel. He was challenging - so human and alive. And he has changed Castiel, he'd hoped for the better - but look what he's done...

And now he sees his brothers and sisters, rank and file, following the call and so much like he had...

and he hates them.

His gut (a thing he never would have even felt let alone consulted before) tells him to wake them up, to spoil for them the sugary lie of Heaven's infallibility. He looks at them, knowing their thousands, but seeing strangers. He knows them like one knows the alphabet. A fact. They are not people he _knows_ in the way that he _knows_ Sam and Dean and how he knew Bobby Singer. He's never known his brethren like that. They've been intentionally kept from knowing themselves.

He had hoped to return to Heaven, to pay for his transgressions and disappear into their ranks. But as he looks at them, suddenly he feels how alone he is. An Angel mortalized, then mutated, then vaguely mortalized again, only to be fractured irreparably and then somehow returned to his original state.

There are none like him. He knows it. They know it.

He assumed they would meet him, as they would have before the apocalypse, with force and numbers, retribution and shame, and reintegrate him. It would be violent and painful and expected and Castiel would secretly thank them for any brainwashing he received that managed to scrub down all he _feels_ for the human world until it was dull enough to bury under reprogramming.

But that doesn't happen.

He stands. In the middle of Heaven, and no one comes for him. No one comes near. Some dare to look, fleetingly, as they pass by. There are celestial whispers, but no action. They are afraid, unsure. They know he is no longer invincible (if he ever was) but still, they give him space. And Castiel doesn't know what to feel.

He sees Naomi in the distance, and he knows if anyone will see him punished, it is her. His betrayal struck her too deeply for her militant constitution to allow it to pass. He doesn't go to her. He just... stands. And waits.

He isn't fighting anymore.

**...**

Castiel thinks perhaps this is his punishment - the lack of. The waiting for someone to strike him, and being suspended in that waiting, for the blow that never comes. Maybe, he thinks sadly, the harshest punishment of all, is disinterest. The _why bother_. The thought that maybe, Heaven has given up on him and no one even cares enough to tell him that he was wrong and bad and _how dare he_.

He's had a lot of time to stand here and think, and he knows now that his were the actions of a livid teenager - thinking he was smarter than he was, seeing what he could get away with, waiting for somebody to please God tell him No. Waiting, for somebody to _care_ enough to tell him No.

But the only one who dared to say it was...

No. He closes his eyes. He doesn't think of him. His hands ball into fists and he chokes down any thought of him, and it feels so noisy in his brain as he tries to count the leaves of an oak in Massachusetts he remembers to drive away the lingering need to think of Dean's skin, of the way his knuckles have healed over, rough and imperfect, since his over-use of their strength in Purgatory...

_Three hundred fifty five - _

Rough scabs, blackened with old blood and soil, Castiel had kissed as a gesture of understanding...

_Three hundred fifty six - _

Rough against his lips, as he can feel Dean's hand unclench under his touch...

_Three hundred fifty seven, three hundred fifty eight, three hundred fifty nine -_

"It's been a long time brother," a young voice says, pulling Castiel from the riot in his mind - the voice is soft, almost so as not to frighten Castiel away. And Castiel appreciates the sentiment, especially considering that he had expected to be met with harsh punishment and hate. He half-wondered if his brothers and sisters would run screaming from _him_. The murderer.

He turns and sees before him the visage of his younger brother, Samandriel. His vessel suits him. Sweet and young and hopeful-looking. Samandriel smiles at him, and it is small and honest, if a little sad.

"Hello Samandriel," Castiel greets. It is a poor attempt at evenness.

"You have returned, at last," the younger angel almost looks relieved. "I have been wanting to see you. Wondering how you were since I felt you'd returned."

"Yes. I..." Castiel's head ducks in sudden guilt. He'd have killed this sweet brother too, if he'd been in his way. "I..." Castiel straightens up, puts on a brave face, his soldier-face, "I've returned to pay penance for what I've done."

Samandriel cocks his head at Castiel, "Have you not suffered the last year in Purgatory?"

Castiel's throat tightens. He blinks at his brother, but can't respond. All he can think of is how good that place felt, how free, how not alone... how beautiful Dean was speckled with dirt and blood and sweat. And how _wrong_ it is to feel so.

"Oh..." Samandriel says suddenly, his mouth hanging somewhat open as he looks at Castiel very closely.

Castiel feels himself blush, and he has the urge to flee but he holds himself steady.

"I see," Samandriel says sadly, nodding, and Castiel is shocked by the lack of judgement in his voice. There is an almost tired acceptance to it. And then he straightens up and looks Castiel in the eye, "Castiel, may I speak freely?"

"Of- of course..."

Samandriel takes a breath, seemingly organizing his thoughts. "God has made us of the same matter. All of us, we're woven from the same cloth and thus, much the same in thought and practice. We're designed that way," he says with a shrug. He squints at Castiel, tilting his head to the side and looking at him closely, "But you..."

Castiel's ducks his head in shame, not able to look his brother in the eyes when he says out loud everything Castiel knows to be true - he is weaker, he is more selfish, less dedicated. Castiel is wicked, different from the rest of his lustless, humbly dedicated brethren.

But Samandriel instead does something Castiel does not expect. He reaches forward, and tilts Castiel's head up by his chin.

"You are _different_, Castiel," he says it with a smile, like it is good.

Castiel can do nothing but stare at him, captivated, his eyes starting to prickle hotly, years of emotion he shouldn't even have bubbling up like a vice on his lungs.

Samandriel smiles at him warmly, if a little sadly. "Despite your... mistakes, your heart was always in the right place." He looks at Castiel as though thousands of years worth of thought and memory surge up, and he is saddened by their weight. "Too much heart has always been your problem brother."

Castiel closes his eyes. He feels hot tears roll down his face and it is so foreign. But he has no control over it anymore. "I can't..." he stutters weakly, "I don't know what I am supposed to do anymore."

Samadriel gives a short laugh, "If there was ever an angel who was destined to choose his own path Castiel, it is you," he says as if it should be obvious. Then he sighs heavily and turns to stand shoulder to shoulder with Castiel, leaving his older brother his dignity as he wipes his face hurriedly, and they both look out at the legions of their brethren bustling around them.

"You tried to tell us," Samandriel muses quietly. "About freedom. About choosing for ourselves. But... we are not like you Castiel. We ..._can't_. Well, most of us," Samandriel smirks. And Castiel gives a small smile in return, because Samandriel is an individual, one of a kind in his own way. "Perhaps, this was your chosen destiny all along," he suggests lightly. "God has chosen for you to follow this path, instead of ours?" he wonders.

Castiel longs for his kind of love for their father, love that he himself used to have. Faith that somehow, it is all still part of his plan. Samandriel at least can admit that he has no fucking idea what his plans are. That, Castiel respects very much.

"Maybe you were always meant to be different," the younger angel supposes. "To be... more of Earth, than of Heaven. A different mission..."

Castiel looks down suddenly, in what seems to Samandriel to be great agony.

"Would that not make you happy?" the younger brother asks, confused.

"How can I be what I am... a _traitor_, a murderer of my own kin, selfish, egotistical and self-indulgent and cruel, and be allowed ..."

He doesn't have to say _happiness_. His brother knows how happy he is with Dean and how guilty he feels for it. And Samandriel looks back out across the scores of brothers who will never have such concerns, and he says nothing. Because he doesn't know what to say.

Castiel never was a talker. Frankly, Samandriel is surprised he got this much out of him. He was always stoic. Always empirical, but fair. Honest and faithful. He's fallen a far way. And it is sad to Samandriel, who has always looked up to Castiel, the brother blessed with such fierce goodness, who went utterly unnoticed.

"You are a good angel Castiel," he says simply.

Castiel stares at him, shocked.

"You have committed... crimes," Samandriel continues, "But God does not hate you."

He says it as though he _knows_ it to be true, and Castiel listens, begging to be convinced.

"He loves you, somehow, the way he loves them. With forgiveness for you weaknesses. It is a rare thing."

Castiel swallows thickly.

"When you finally see that this is no longer the place where your time is best spent, please don't forget to say goodbye."

Castiel turns, shocked, but his brother is already moving away from him.

**...**

There is a certain hard-wiring in the angelic brain that longs for structure and the strict enforcing of rules, and doesn't know what to do when those things are lacking. Obedience is bred into Castiel, and with the amount he has disobeyed, he feels hopelessly lost. Even knowing his betrayal of Michael and Lucifer's plan for Apocalypse was right, he still suffered an utterly lost feeling.

It was right to disobey then. But it was a gateway to the spiral that's lead him here - a stranger in his own home, a murderer of his own kind, a _freak_ no better than his brother cast down into Hell. Terrifying and wicked and looked at by his siblings, who he'd once so longed to protect and gain acceptance from, as something to be feared and to remain at a distance from.

They accept him back into their ranks as one accepts that the lover of their spouse, whom they blame for breaking up their family, is an unfortunate existence - with pain and bitterness and the wish that he would disappear. But for the good of the family, they let him in.

Despite the sickening anxiety of returning home utterly full of shame, Castiel feels the hot poker in his brain recede, and the ache in his Grace dull significantly. But, relief from his pains does not cure him of his obsession with Dean and it doesn't convince him he should be here. He tries to ignore that in favor of the hope that Heaven cures all with time and penance.

Things on earth are... messy. Difficult. Complicated. Painful. Castiel had hoped that coming back to Heaven might silence all of those oh so human feelings he has been having and restore him to his former solidarity.

A miracle cure is what he is looking for. But for all his expectations, and the slight dulling of his pain, Heaven is offering him no peace of mind - no quelling of the doubt that he has, once again, made the wrong choice. And Samandriel's words echo in his brain. Castiel is still so tired. Still complicated. Still full of feeling. And still irrevocably connected to Dean. He wonders what his brethren think about in their quiet moments, as all of his are full of memories of the Winchesters. He tries to remember what he used to think about before he knew them... but he simply can't.

And suddenly, looking out across the legions of Heaven, Castiel has an epiphany.

He will never forget Dean.

He will never be able to cover him up, to stop feeling for him. It should have been obvious perhaps. It is now.

He is never going to be a normal angel again.

The thought is terrifying.

He is never going to be like them. None of them knows the feeling of Dean's soul, reaching out for him in Hell, clutching to him so desperately, begging not to be left, begging to be saved. None of them knows what it feels like to save someone. To be saved in return. None of them knows the curve of his lips into a simple smile like Castiel does, and the joy that soars inside at the sight. None of them knows how it feels to hold and take and give and be absolutely certain that it is real, that it _feels right_.

They may have touched, kissed, given and gotten, even healed a man of earth... But none of them has felt the things that Castiel has, as intimately or as honestly. Castiel is drowning in the knowledge - he isn't like them anymore.

Because he knows every prayer in every language, but he doesn't know them with the fervor with which he knows that Dean's eyes are green - but they're not just green. They're full of little flecks of colors and refractions of light. So much of Castiel's waking mind has been used to record these little nuances, details of Dean.

Samandriel comes to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "Your mind is elsewhere," he comments lightly, and Castiel nearly blushes. He does not respond. He simply straightens up and aims his piercing blue eyes forward, looking far away.

Samandriel nods, knowing that Castiel will not mince words. He won't chat for the sake of it. He is glad to see Castiel's old attitude and strength returning to him. A proud stance, a solid look about him. Finally, the brother he recognizes.

But Samandriel knows better than to trust it. Castiel the Angel of the Lord has returned, but _Cas_, is still here as well.

Samandriel stares forward, "You are thinking about him," he states carefully.

Castiel levels a dangerous glare at him.

Samandriel laughs, he can't help it, "Relax, brother."

Castiel turns forward again. Visibly stiffened.

"How are you finding things in Heaven?" Samandriel asks, business-like.

"Organized," Castiel returns flatly.

Samandriel smirks again, before walking away, and Castiel finds it to be very frustrating. If there is one thing he's learned from his time on earth, it is the look of a smirk that says, _I know something that you haven't figured out yet_.

**...**

Castiel waits and waits for one of his brothers to snap, for someone to exact revenge upon him...

But it doesn't happen. And it is infuriating to him. And that too, seems to be beyond his brothers' comprehension. Which only serves to flummox Castiel further, vexing him until he finds himself wanting to throw up his arms in a very human expression of frustration.

His brothers only glance at him sideways, vaguely disapproving.

They don't _want_ anything from him - retribution, penance, allegiance. They don't know _how_ to want.

The thought is so foreign to Castiel now. Impossible to understand... He's kissed human lips and desired for everything from friendship and acceptance to sensual touch. He has _wanted_, with every fiber of his being - for another's safety, for his happiness, his well-being. Wanted that more than anything at some moments.

But none of his brethren, none of them, can understand that. Castiel's experiences, his feelings, _Dean's life_, it all means _nothing_ to them. Another drop in the bucket. And that feels so wrong...

Suddenly, Castiel doesn't give a single fuck about Heaven and what he owes it.

He feels something for Dean that runs deeper, feels realer, than anything he has ever felt for the Host. It hurts to realize it, but it's true.

Dean is life - he is emotion and action and spark. He is beauty and love and imperfection and all of the things that Castiel has always cherished about his Father's children embodied. Castiel is hopeless in his love for him. Twisted though it may be.

Looking out over these emotionless, loveless creatures he has always felt he owed so much to, he suddenly realizes,

he doesn't give a good goddamn what any of them thinks. He's no better than them, sure. But he's no worse.

...

With the abundance of structure in Heaven these days there are a multitude of meetings for the most pious and strong to decide things which Castiel doesn't bother to imagine. He blows into one of said meetings without a care for propriety or the stunned expressions on their faces. In secret, there is a part of him that enjoys the way their mouths hang open at the sight of him, how his mere presence and lack of pomp and circumstance seems to throw them completely off their game. The gall of the angel who tried to play God...

He heads directly to Samandriel, whose body language is relaxed and open at the sight of him. Castiel is glad to know him.

"Castiel," the younger angel greets happily, though he seems surprised to see him here.

Castiel stands solidly before him, looking clearer and stronger than ever, and states, "I'm here to say goodbye."

* * *

_Please Review._


	26. Chapter 26

_Thanks for reviewing. Always helps. _

_Alas, I have no ramblings today. Here's the next one..._

* * *

Chapter Twenty Six

Dean is in the house alone.

It shouldn't be a big deal, he's a damn grown man, but it is. It's a big deal for Sam, who Dean has sent out to_ socialize or go read encyclopedias or whatever geeks do_. And after a lengthy discussion, Sam cautiously agreed. Which Dean is thankful for. Because he loves his brother, and knows he'd be laying in a shaking heap on the side of the road somewhere without him, but he needs some fucking space. And he's sure Sam does too. Maybe he'll go read a book, or get laid. Dean would love for the poor kid to have a few hours of Dean-less fun. Besides, Dean wants to prove that he is getting better. He wants to prove to Sam that he can be left alone. It's a test, in a way.

So Sam tells him his phone is on and charged. He tells Dean that he's going to call to check in and that Dean better answer. And he leaves post-it notes all over the house, as is customary now a days, in case Dean has one of his nervous spells.

Neither of them are naive enough this far down the road to assume Dean is out of the woods. He still has his spells - those moments where he is fine one second, and the next is staring down at the floor or at the wall, lost, utterly confused. Baffled and disoriented and occasionally hostile or terrified. For a moment, he is somewhere else. Sam can only assume it's Purgatory. It takes Dean a few minutes to come back to earth. Usually it requires Sam gripping him at the shoulders and shaking him and calling his name loud enough for Dean to find his way back to him through the haze. Sometimes all it takes is a little note, reminding Dean where he is. A couple times he's wandered out into the street, gun or knife in hand. He's never attacked anyone, but still, the armed disorientation is a close enough call.

It's the reason Sam still won't let him drive, and why he is hesitant to leave Dean alone. Dean knows his brother can't stand the thought of him home alone, staring at the walls, ready to slit someone's throat - sitting in the bathtub, trembling, knife at the ready and terrified of monsters that aren't there. But Dean needs Sam not to feel guilty about being his own person, just as much as he needs Sam in general.

Besides, Dean is feeling alright today. So far, when these spells happen he's hardly a danger to himself and others. Granted, he doesn't really remember... but he's pretty sure he just trudges around. Most of the time he comes-to lying in the bathtub or squeezed in the corner half under the bed. Usually he has a weapon, but he never wakes up covered in blood, which is a good sign.

So Dean's pretty sure everything will be fine.

It's kind of nice being alone. It makes him feel, if even for a moment, like he is a self-reliant man again.

He is halfway through tidying the living room of all of their strewn-about clothes and dishes when he feels it, the prickle on his skin and shift in the atmosphere - unmistakeable - he _feels_ it a split-second before he hears the rustle of wings.

Dean stiffens, one of Sam's flannel shirts still absently clutched in his hand, eyes unblinking but seeing nothing because all his focus is given to listening.

Anyone else would have assumed they were hearing things and continued on, such was the length of non-threatening silence that followed. But Dean knows better. He can _feel_ him.

The liquid heat Castiel feels in his core as soon as he is near Dean again is torturous not to acknowledge with a sound. But he clamps down on it, doesn't let any sound escape him.

Castiel had formulated a rather strong approach in his mind before he'd come, a good speech - a sensible explanation for his disappearance and subsequent reappearance. But the reality of being in the room with Dean has made any kind of plan moot. The molten weight settling in him, the trembling in his muscles all twitching forward to touch him, the shake of his breath... Suddenly, he can say nothing.

Dean turns to face him, everything in him screaming and seizing up inside at the sight of the angel. Dean hates to admit it, but it's not an entirely bad feeling. Castiel is standing there in his coat and scrubs, with his dark hair a windswept mess, his pretty skin so clean and pale, and his heartbreaking familiarity tugging at Dean. Dean looks him over without shame, he can't help it, and he watches Castiel do the same.

Castiel takes in Dean's t-shirt fitted so well over his body, the way he stands up straight so that he almost looks well, the green of his eyes so much clearer, those orange freckles... Dean looks almost like himself again. Castiel drags his eyes up to his.

Dean's stare goes hard and cold.

Castiel's jaw is tight with nerves, his shoulders go stiff, and he looks like he might have something to say but his clenched jaw refuses to let him. And before anything else can happen...

Dean punches him in the face.

Castiel's bones are steel and Dean's crack under the force, but he barely winces. It hardly registers, what with the riot of rage and other emotion coursing through him at the sight of the angel. His sudden reappearance uses up all of Dean's awareness.

In a way, Castiel almost seems surprised at this greeting. But then, as his head turns slowly back toward Dean, Castiel's eyes look dark - not in a dangerous way. In that _other_ way, that has Dean staring at him unblinking, heart rioting in his chest, body suddenly hot, lips slightly parted and breath held in his chest waiting for the next moment to happen.

Castiel surges forward and Dean moves to defend himself, but he is no match for an angel, and before Dean can blink or even wince Castiel's got him slammed up against a wall, their lips pressed together.

Dean's soul surges violently at the feeling, the touch of Castiel's skin against his own, _finally_, and he wavers for a moment... it feels so damn good... But he hasn't forgotten any part of how they left this - how Cas left this. He shoves Cas away by the chest roughly. Dean is glaring, they're both panting, and Castiel takes a moment to look at Dean - livid, all fight. And God, doesn't that just look _right_.

Castiel surges forward again and attacks Dean's mouth with his own, easily fighting through Dean's arms, held up to stop him. And so quickly hands are grabbing and tongues are dueling and teeth are nipping, and it's as though they never missed a beat. It's violent and harsh and neither of them is sure if they're are kissing or fighting. Castiel presses his body into Dean's so hard that he knows the man is hopelessly pinned against the wall; he knows he must look desperate, animal and needy. But the thought that they are finally here again, that he's finally given himself the permission to touch him, sends a white hot lance through his guts, and it feels so good but he can't get fucking close enough. Castiel can't have enough of Dean, can't feel enough of him at once - he is frenzied.

Suddenly there's a sharp pain at Dean's lip and he grunts and pulls away.

Bringing his finger to his bottom lip, Dean traces the stinging place and his fingers come away with a smear of blood. Wide eyed and panting, his eyes slide from his bloody finger, to Castiel's face. He sees the angel wiping a finger across his own lips, shocked to find a trace of blood there as well.

And Dean doesn't know if he's angry, or fuck, if he wants Castiel to come back and destroy him, because Castiel just bit his lip so hard he's bleeding.

Castiel looks as though he cannot believe himself. "I - Dean, I'm - I apolo-"

But he doesn't get to finish, because Dean is on him, lips sliding together again, hands pulling at him roughly.

Castiel groans into Dean's mouth as Dean grabs roughly at Castiel's hair, growling at the sound the angel makes in response. Their hands are bruising at each other's hips, fisting hard in clothes and hair and grabbing unforgivingly at skin and limbs. They can't touch enough fast enough. There is no rhythm to the way they slide together, but the friction of jeans against scrubs, cotton and starchy trench and skin rubbing together is so damn familiar that they let no space come between them, even when it hinders their movement. Neither is willing to give up even an inch.

Castiel can feel the familiar heat and solid bulk of the man beneath these clothes, against his own body, and it feels so much more like home than heaven had.

It feels so much more right.

Castiel pulls back, dodging Dean when his hungry lips chase after him. He stays close but doesn't let Dean kiss him, only brush lips, just barely. He waits, until Dean knows he's trying to take control, slow them down. And then when Dean holds back and waits for Castiel, the angel comes forward and he sucks at Dean's bottom lip, gently, tasting the addictive copper of his blood. His lips are slow, gentle against Dean's as he presses kisses to those lips, opens them slowly. A much better apology than the one he was prepared to give before. And he feels Dean's frantic shaking quell, as the man sinks into the slower touch. Castiel licks into his mouth and wills Dean's tongue to play, which Dean is all too happy to oblige.

The kiss is hot, intimate and slow, and exactly what they've both needed for so long. Dean can feel his palms getting sweaty against Castiel's coat, his knuckles aching sorely, but he refuses to loosen his grip - he's scared to let him go.

Castiel opens his eyes and pulls away slightly, leaving little kisses and nips at Dean's lips as he does, so he can and see Dean's expression - the man's eyes are closed, lips reddened gorgeously, eyebrows drawn together almost... sadly. He's scared. Castiel reaches a trembling hand up and presses his thumb, feather-light, to Dean's brow tracing the feature, smoothing away its furrow. And when he glances down Dean's eyes are open and on him, wide and glassy and Castiel knows all too well, that he is frightened.

Dean holds a moment, staying still, watching Castiel's face carefully and Cas knows that he is waiting for the moment when Castiel will realize what they've done and pull away. Cas knows what he must do. He stays. He keeps himself close to Dean, he holds his stare and keeps his arms around him and refuses, with trembling breath, to waver. He shows Dean that he is sure this time - he isn't going to change his mind. He isn't going to leave him. And when Dean, heartbreakingly nervously, leans slowly forward to kiss him, clearly terrified that Cas will push him away as he so often has, Castiel closes his eyes and begs him to do it. And when Dean comes forward and kisses him soft and innocent, Castiel feels his whole body shake in relief.

He shouldn't be able to run out of breath, but he does. Gasping as he pulls from the kiss, he tightens his hold on Dean, keeping his eyes shut and just feeling the closeness, the visceral realness of Dean. Castiel leans his forehead against Dean's, breathing against his lips, and Dean can feel the shaking of that breath. When Dean presses his hands to Castiel's back, sliding them up and down soothingly, keeping him close, Castiel sighs and lets his head drop down until his face is pressed into the crook of Dean's neck.

Their bodies are warm, fitted perfectly together.

"Why did you stay away from me?" Dean asks, so quietly that it's barely words at all.

A long moment passes, until Dean thinks that Cas is going to stay quiet, and then he feels him mutter against his skin, "I want to touch you, so much sometimes... that I can't breathe..."

Dean tries not to smile with relief, with joy, at the confession. He can hear the struggle in Cas' voice. The pain behind the statement. "Why don't you?" he asks. But Castiel says nothing. Dean remembers back to the unconquerable pain of Cas telling him, point blank, that he regretted them. Dean's throat feels tight, and his jaw clenches as he surmises, "You're ashamed -"

"No," Cas cuts him off suddenly and clearly, so there is no mistake, "No."

"It doesn't feel right," Dean admits sadly. "Coming back to it, knowing you regretted the whole thing."

Castiel lifts his head and looks Dean square in the eye. He tilts his head, squinting. "No I didn't."

"You said so Cas," Dean snaps back harshly, "you told me you did."

Castiel looks down at the floor, shaking his head somberly, "You misunderstand, Dean. I meant that I regretted it happened _there_, under such... circumstances." Castiel's voice is rough and flat, "You were broken and I was... evil. My regret is that I hadn't found my way to it, to _you_, when we were here in the world. Before we were..."

Dean has the inkling Cas is about to say _Crazy_. Or _The only two men left alive_.

"I regret that we never... found each other when we were... in our right minds. Before I'd made so many mistakes. It took being half-mad to see..."

Dean stares at the angel, waiting even as he can see he's run out of words.

Castiel's voice is low, almost a whisper, almost shy, "I could never regret what... what happened between us."

Dean exhales heavily through his nose, wincing - it's all he can do to keep from sobbing in relief. He feels like a raw nerve, hurting and exposed and praying not to be ruined. All he can think is how desperately he needs this to be real. He is utterly vulnerable and the thought of finally having Cas back, only for this to be snatched away again is... it's torture. He'd die. His voice comes out rough, scratchy and low, "You better be fucking serious."

Castiel leans his head back up, cupping Dean's face in both hands and looking at him, more like leveling him with his dead-serious blue-flame _Castiel_ stare. Dean swallows, trapped in that stare. All he can do is stare back. Castiel's face is calm and commanding as he says:

"I'm always serious."

There is silence. Dean blinks, awed by him. After a silent, tense moment... Castiel slowly begins to smile.

Dean gapes in disbelief - that son of a bitch picked a hell of a time to grow a sense of humor. Dean can't help it, he lets out a laugh, a small one, shaking his head still in Cas' hands. And he can hear Cas' light laugh as well, even as Dean himself cusses under his breath and mutters a frustrated warning.

Castiel comes forward and kisses him. Before Dean knows what's happening he's got them flipped around, he's pressing Cas into the wall, kissing him hard and holding him tight. _Owning_ him, like he's wanted to for so long.

When they break for air, Castiel pants, breathless against his lips, and Dean sees that now it's the angel who looks raw, vulnerable and desperate. Terrified. With eyes squeezed closed and head ducking down Castiel begs, "Tell me I can stay..."

"Oh you're stayin'," Dean replies, quietly but confidently. "Cas, we're stickin' together."

It takes the form of a demand, but they both know it's a question. An offer. A request. A desperate need for confirmation. And breathless Dean barely has to wait for Castiel's reply - a frantic nod as he surges forward and kisses Dean again.

...

They're laying in Dean's bed, hearts beating wildly, just barely touching. They're minds are buzzing, racing frantically to figure out what they're supposed to do next. Now that they have time, now that they're certain.

It's Dean who finally gets up, stomach in knots, but he is resolved. He strips off his t-shirt and jeans, easily and calmly, taking his boots and socks with them. He can feel the angel's eyes on him, hear his breathing. He hesitates for a moment, and then pulls off his underwear, and he is completely naked.

Cas sits up, arms shaky, and pulls his scrub shirt up over his head. He goes to slide his pants down, and Dean comes forward, leans down and pulls them off as Castiel lifts his hips.

They look each other over, both intimately aware of how much they'd wanted to be able to do this, and had never been able to before.

Sitting up on the bed, Cas is perfect - porcelain plains and sinewy muscle. Like some sort of indestructible priceless piece of china. The kind with gold filagree and pearly patterns that Dean has always been too afraid to touch, let alone drink from. Strangely beautiful. Castiel is familiar, even though the sight of him, like this, is new. And it gives Dean a good feeling, a safe feeling. Like he knows this is supposed to happen.

Castiel can only sigh at the sight of this man, standing there beside the bed. Dean, both bold and hesitant. This scarred-up adonis that he'd touched once, so easily, and that he hopes to touch again. His smooth skin is puckered, dipped and raised with the evidence of his violent history but to Castiel, it is perfect. Beautiful. It's a roadmap to this moment. It's the story of the hero. Every mark begs to be answered with soft fingertips and lips.

He drags his eyes over every inch, every line, that he'd so wished to have the luxury to see in Purgatory - the cut of his hipbones, the strong tops of his thighs. His appreciation of Dean's body isn't as sexual as he thought it would be. He doesn't have the uncontrollable want to throw him down and take him like he was so worried he would. He's just kind of in awe. All of Dean is bared, for him. And he for Dean. Cas swallows loudly as he watches, with a thudding heart, as Dean's eyes trail down his chest and stomach, and land on the part of him that only Dean has seen and touched.

Dean lays down beside Castiel, they face each other and feel each other's breath, coming quick and shaky. Castiel reaches out first, trails his fingers over the scar on Dean's shoulder from the monster's talons, the patchwork-healed wound from their first night in Purgatory. The catalyst that brought them here, to this shared, hybrid existence.

Castiel knows what he has to do. He _wants_ to do it. He does.

He's just... fucking terrified.

Dean senses it, comes forward to hold him close and lets out a deep breath to calm himself. One of them's got to have it together, and he's seizing the opportunity for it to be him for once. He pulls Cas' shaking hands around his body, and Cas sighs, sinking into the embrace. It's all so familiar, like a good dream coming to life. They used to do this. It was so easy then...

It could be that way again.

Castiel's hands unclench, his palms flattening against Dean's skin, and the dry sob Cas lets out when he finally holds him, skin to skin, makes Dean close his eyes and think _Finally. **Now** it's right_.

Castiel's grace surges, brings both of their attention to the wall, the intangible barrier between grace and soul, and Cas looks at Dean with nervous eyes as if to say _I don't know what the fuck is about to happen to us_.

And Dean looks at Cas with the expression the angel knows to say, _Fuck it. _

_Let's do this_.

Being a full angel, it _hurts_ to feel human things. It won't be like it was in Purgatory, Cas knows that. He was practically human there. It'll be _more_. Now that he's an angel again, everything will be overwhelming - every human feeling, every sensation felt the way a human soul does. A way he was never intended to feel. And it will fucking _hurt_. Castiel's got months of backlogged emotion from not only himself, but from Dean to siphon through. He knows it is going to be hard, he knows it's going to be painful, but he also has faith that ultimately, it will put him and Dean back together again. He has to lower the wall to make everything right.

So he presses his palms to Dean's shoulder blades, he breathes deep, and he forces the wall to crack and dissolve away.

For a moment... it is utter bliss.

Dean can feel it - the barrier between them has disappeared. And he can feel what Cas has felt, all of it, every moment. He can feel that it's been just as hard for Cas as for him, he can see what Cas saw - how he's looked in his bad moments and how much regret Cas has had for not being able to help - and Dean holds him tighter because he can feel that Cas has been suffering.

It's good to feel each other so impossibly inside themselves, but so much so that it actually hurts.

Castiel feels like an electrical conduit - grace and soul and emotion and thought all running through him, sparking off of one another and making his body shake. Pressure in his head that makes his eyes white out and his ears feel like they're going to pop. All of Dean's confusion, his solitude and longing - they're all there. Countless thoughts, sights, sounds, smells, tastes. It's too much, too much for one body to hold and he thinks, _oh God I'm gonna kill us both_.

But Dean grips him tight and demands, silently, that he ride it out. _It'll end, Cas. Just ride it out_.

He lets out a strangled yell, muffled by Dean's shoulder as he bites down on it. He feels like he could fly apart - like his vessel could rip apart and kill them both, and it is baffling because it feels _so fucking good_. But it's _torture_. Dean holds him tight, presses them together from knees to chest, and strokes between his shoulder blades and whispers little promises of how it's alright and it's gonna be ok.

Castiel's body shakes, he whimpers without knowing it, and his mind is a riot, finally taking in the avalanche of everything he's refused to feel and acknowledge for all this time. His breath is stuttering, his chest heaving, and his skin feels hot - if he didn't know better he'd think he was dying, having some sort of fever-induced seizure. But Dean holds him, never lets him go through the whole thing, which he is thankful for because he doesn't know what would happen to him.

Amazingly, throughout it all Dean's soul simply opens to him, taking it all with a gracefulness and relief that belies his long wait for just this.

It gives Castiel confidence that he can do this, that it's meant to be. Because Dean is doing it so well. He's handling it beautifully - like he was born for it, to contain residue of a force that his body isn't even built to maintain. And yet he just opens for it, like a flower taking sun.

Castiel's body jerks and shakes of its own volition, but Dean never lets him go and Cas is so thankful that Dean can feel his gratitude through their bond, his silent chanting of _thank you thank you thank you_ as Dean doesn't pull away. Never leaves him.

Part of him thinks he doesn't know how he can deserve such love and loyalty, how a person such as Dean can even exist. Castiel feels, in that moment, such faith and thanks to the Father he has railed against, that tears prickle his closed eyes. But he is calmed, and certain, and the riot inside ceases finally,one wave at a time, until it descends into a quiet ripple.

When the flood of emotion and sensation, Grace and soul, is finally done it all kind of evens out. Mixed together, like two liquids spilled into one container. More joined volume settles in the both of them than the contaminated singular sources they'd trapped inside themselves before with Castiel's dam. It's bizarre, they feel raw, overly stimulated, and full. It's sore, but in a way that assures them both it will heal. They know now that if they hadn't held off, if they'd let the bond continue unhindered upon their return to earth, this titlewave would never have occurred. But Dean is almost glad for it, for being forced to realize how much he wanted what they had. To feel the stark contrast between having it, and not. To really know how special this is, what they've got.

It's confusing and hurts like a low current of electricity, but finally, _finally_, he can _feel_ Castiel again. And Castiel can feel Dean, in every cell.

Castiel is panting and boneless in Dean's arms, entirely spent, when he sees the man look down between them and realizes for the first time that at some point he'd come. He hadn't been able to distinguish it between all of the torturous pleasures and sharp feelings overwhelming him.

Dean isn't bothered, though he is baffled. He looks Castiel over, making sure the angel seems ok, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. Castiel can do nothing but look up at him, just thankful he is there. He takes a deep breath, letting his head loll to the side, where it can rest against Dean's shoulder, and he closes his eyes.

Dean brushes his lips against Cas' temple.

When Castiel's trembling subsides some, Dean gets up and goes naked to the bathroom, leaving Castiel a strengthless dead-weight on the bed, and coming back with two damp cloths. The first is warm, and he uses it to clean both of their bellies and groins of Castiel's seed. The second is cool, and he smoothes it over Castiel's chest, and presses it to his forehead, stroking a finger over the angel's flushed cheek.

They lay there together for a long stretch of comfortable quiet.

They don't have sex. They just lay naked together, sometimes clutching close, sometimes just shoulder to shoulder. And it is such a relief, that they both could have cried, so instead, they laughed - light and easy into each other's skin.

* * *

_Does everybody feel better?_

_Well don't! Because we're not done yet! Bwahahaha!_

_(That was my evil laugh... did it translate?)_

_Sincerely though, I was going crazy trying to make this chapter work right, and I must've gone over it a million times. So I really hope you guys liked it. Brings a little relief from the soul-crushing angst at least, I hope. haha_


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

Sam keys into the house quickly, trying to convince himself to calm down. He doesn't even spare a moment throw down his keys as he moves through the kitchen.

"Dean!" he calls out, trying to sound composed. He glances to his left and sees his brother's cell phone on the kitchen table. He grabs it and flips it open.

**5 Missed Calls**

**1 Unread Text Message**

Sam sighs irritatedly. _Of course._ Dean doesn't even have the phone on him.

"Dean!" he calls out again, a little more roughly this time, his heart beating in his throat. He turns the corner into the living room and stops cold.

Dean is coming out of his bedroom, disheveled and noticeably docile.

Castiel is by his side.

The three stand there, silently, the length of the living room between them. Sam's eyes move from his brother to the angel, again and again, for what feels like minutes on end. They look exhausted, their cheeks slightly pinked as though they've spent a long day in the sun, but all Sam really notices is how comfortable they look beside each other. They seem unnervingly content.

Dean and Castiel simply stand quietly, shoulder to shoulder, both looking calm, but sheepish nonetheless. Anyone within two miles could have felt the radioactive waves of frustration rolling off of Sam Winchester in that moment.

"I've been calling you," he levels at Dean flatly.

"Sorry," Dean offers. "I left my phone in -"

"Yeah I saw that." Sam zeroes-in a glare at Castiel, and to his credit, the angel is not cowed. He merely looks back, almost softly. And that just makes Sam even more livid. "Hey Cas," he spits sarcastically. "Where the fuck ya been?"

Castiel can feel Dean remember the way Sam looked after he suddenly left - scattered and desperate to help, betrayed, and abandoned in the fight. Cas looks at Sam apologetically.

"He's back," Dean offers lamely.

"I can see that," Sam bites back.

"He only left because-"

"I don't care _why_ he left, Dean," Sam booms. Both Dean and Cas' eyes go down to the floor.

Sam feels like he's punishing two children. Children that he somehow ended up having to take care of. And how fucking unfair is that? HE didn't let Purgatory out! HE isn't the one who's all fucked up! Why should he feel guilty? How fucking nice for them, that they get to be broken and useless together and he has to be the one who _cares_ that Cas fucking disappeared on them, and that Dean is still not ok, and that if no one around here makes any goddamn money then they will fucking starve to death. Suddenly Sam knows how it feels to have the weight of the family on his shoulders, and he can't blame his brother for going guano. He's been trying so goddamned hard to keep it together... Everything Sam has felt and held in since he got Dean back all surges up until he's furious and doesn't really know why. All he does know, is that in this moment, he hates Castiel with a passion. And he's livid with his brother for not being angry at the angel. And he hates them both for apparently being a happy, cohesive little unit while he is standing there floundering after fucking _months_ of having had to keep it together and take care of them! How did _he_ end up being the odd man out?

"Cas," Sam starts, voice trembling with rage, and then takes a breath to compose himself, "maybe you should just leave for a little while."

Sam doesn't miss how Cas' eyes dart to Dean's, momentarily panicked, until Dean looks at him calmly and Cas seems to be placated.

"Cas isn't leaving," Dean says, calm and certain.

Sam swipes a hand over his face in frustration. "I need to talk to you Dean," he demands.

"Cas isn't leaving," Dean repeats.

Something in the younger brother snaps. Dean isn't fucking sure of anything anymore - sometimes he doesn't even know his own goddamn name. But he sure as hell seems sure now.

"Fine," Sam retorts briskly, walking over toward the wall. "If you won't leave, then I'll make you." Sam pulls out his knife, cutting his palm and raising it toward the wall to draw out the banishing sigil.

"No - Sam, don't!" Dean runs forward, hand gripping his brother's wrist.

Sam looks down at him and sees his pleading eyes. He looks so desperate, he _just stopped_ looking desperate, just this week. Sam snaps. "Dean, YOU DON'T NEED HIM!" he yells.

"I know that," Dean answers strongly.

For a moment, all Sam can do is look at his brother. He is trying to measure how stable he is, if he knows what he's saying, if he knows how much it could destroy them both if Cas leaves him broken again.

"So what, you just forgive him - just like that!"

"He didn't think he had a choice -"

"Oh yeah? And what if he decides to leave again, huh? What if he takes off on you! He's not exactly the most reliable!"

"He's won't."

"And you know that, huh?" he asks sarcastically. "You trust him, after everything he's done."

"Yes," Dean answers certainly.

Sam looks at the angel coldly, "Well I don't."

Castiel realizes, in that moment, that Heaven was never going to give him the public scorn and shaming that he deserved. Heaven wasn't nearly as righteous as Sam Winchester.

Sam pulls his wrist from Dean's hold and steps forward, eyes searing a hole of molten shame into Castiel's chest. "He's _finally_ getting better, and _now_ you're back?" he seethes. "Where were you when he fucking needed you! Where were you when he was screaming and shaking and fucking falling apart! And now that he's _finally_ getting better you're back to fuck it all up!"

Sam is livid, that is obvious, but he is also scared. And Cas can hear it in his voice.

Cas simply looks at him. It's written all over the angel's face - how sorry he is, how much he understands Sam's rage, as well as his fear. How much he wishes he could make it right, make Dean better. And Sam seems to loose steam at the sight.

"I don't know what he is to you, ok? I don't understand... this," Sam admits, motioning between them. "But he's _my brother_. And you have really fucked us over in the past two years. You lied, you nearly killed us, _you_ let those fucking things out. You have been so off the fucking rails Castiel! Do you _know_ what you've done! Do you know how many people, how many angels, are _dead_ because of you! Are you even capable of understanding!"

Dean can feel the angel wince at that.

"I don't trust you anymore," Sam admits. "And I don't think you're good for Dean."

Dean doesn't speak up for Castiel. Not because he doesn't love him, not because he doesn't long to defend him. He does. But he knows, that Castiel needs this. He knows that the martyr in Castiel, the guilt-addled little boy in him, needs to be scorned by someone who hurts because of him.

And Dean can feel through the bond and see on the angel's face when he _finally_ let's a fucking tear out, that he's been waiting years for someone to bother to yell at him.

Sam doesn't know how much he's helped him by yelling the truth, how much he's helped them both. All the younger Winchester can do is stand there, deflated now that all his hate and rage has been spit out, and watch Castiel, Angel of the Lord, silently cry like a teenager who knows how bad he's been, and feels horribly for putting their family through it.

Sam sighs, and walks away.

* * *

Seeing Castiel cry, silently and ashamed, is a big wake-up call for Sam.

When he sees Dean go to him and let the angel duck his head by Dean's chest, just barely touching, for some modesty, for somewhere to hide, everything Sam thinks he knows about them is turned on its axel.

Castiel is just as broken as Dean. And that changes everything.

He's hidden it better, but Cas is all kinds of messed up. And that kind of makes them make sense to Sam. Not completely, he's not _that_ intuitive. But their dynamic is less terrifying now that he can see that Cas needs Dean just as much as Dean needs him.

Sam walks away - he doesn't demand again for Castiel to leave. He simply sighs, knowing that they are going to stay together now, no matter what he says. He isn't sure if what he feels is relief, or dread. Maybe a little of both.

The three of them don't speak for the rest of the night, Sam needing time to think about it all, and the other two falling asleep in Dean's bedroom. _At least Dean's sleeping through the night_, Sam thinks.

* * *

The next day, they're all loitering in the house together, stiff and awkward. Sam still a little bitter, Cas and Dean still shaky and sore from their newly repaired bond. There is a serious adjustment period for the two. The flood gates are opened, and the deluge has swept through and destroyed as much as it has helped. Dean is shaky and momentarily baffled, nervous and frustrated. His shoulders hunch and there is a darkness beneath his eyes, as though he is tired. And Castiel is plagued with headaches, the stress of all of this overwhelming emotion. The distance he's put between himself and heaven is causing a withdrawal similar to his separation with Dean. He has no doubt it will wane with time, but for the time being, it is irritating.

* * *

Laying in bed one morning, Castiel worries that reinforcing their bond will be a step backward for Dean's recovery. But Dean feels clearer, more himself, than he has been in so long and he gives the angel a fiercely irritated glare at the thought.

Castiel gives a light laugh at his expression, but then his thoughts go dark and heavy and Dean tilts his head in question.

"I'm sorry Dean," he says sheepishly. "I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing." The sound of that statement resonates deeply for both men. Castiel wishes he could stop having to say that.

Dean knows how he feels.

* * *

Dean thinks often about Castiel making the decision to stay away. Putting up a wall between them that was so obviously unnatural. "Did it hurt you as much as it hurt me?" he asks him, conversationally.

"That is impossible to quantify," the angel replies flatly.

Dean rolls his eyes.

Cas looks down at his hands, "Yes."

Dean smiles, and at first Castiel feels as though he should be offended. But then he can feel, the way he feels everything Dean does, that Dean is gracious in his way. _You put yourself through all that to save me_, he thinks.

And Castiel thinks, _Of course_.

* * *

Dean is collecting himself after having one of his spells - small and uneventful. The act of collecting himself is really just a few minutes he's taking alone to deal with the embarrassment of the fact that he apparently stared blankly into Cas' face for an entire minute before he snapped back and remembered where the fuck he was.

Sam understands why Dean would need to hide, even if Cas doesn't. But still, it leaves him alone with the angel.

So Sam busies himself with the act of cooking. It's been awhile since they've been in a place with a working stove and oven, so he's making the most of it. Especially since they aren't really raking in the dough these days. He lifts the heavy iron pan to place it on the burner and winces, dropping the pan with a clang onto the stove. He hisses, opening and closing his fist, examining the slice in his palm that he, like a genius, inflicted on himself.

"May I?" he hears from behind him.

Sam turns and Castiel is standing there, trying his damnedest to look like himself. He glances to Sam's poorly bandaged hand.

It's a _moment_ - Sam knows it is. On of those little moments where something small happens that turns out to be not so insignificant if only for it's emotional implications. So right then, he has to make a decision - does he forgive Cas, or not. And he decides... to be the bigger man.

As he nod and extends his arm toward the angel in invitation, he gives him a hard look that let him know, he's not there yet, but he'll get there.

With one easy touch to his palm, Sam feels his wound disappear. "Thanks," he mumbles.

Cas doesn't respond. And he doesn't turn around, even though he can feel Dean watching from the doorway.

* * *

They were happy to be together again. There was no disputing it and it was a simple fact. But it was no honeymoon. There was so much unresolved...

Sam is better every day. It's always been hard for him to hold a grudge against anyone who wasn't his father. And seeing how Cas is stuck to his brother as if magnetically drawn to him, kind of sucks the oxygen out of his hate-fire.

They are all almost content. Both Cas and Sam dealing with Dean's episodes fairly easily, as though they are commonplace. At this point, they almost are. And Sam is even at the point where he gives Cas suggestions in dealing with his splitting headaches. But there is something that's bothering Dean, and Cas can feel it. A kind of resentment, a frustration.

Castiel waits for Sam to go to bed before he retreats to Dean's bedroom, where the man has been brooding alone for the last few hours. When he enters, Dean is sharpening a knife, without much focus, as if he's been waiting for Cas.

Castiel removes his trench and sets it in its usual spot, slung over a rickety chairback, and he waits. Dean will say it first.

"You don't have any scars," is how he decides to start it.

Castiel's head tilts, and he simply watches the man, knowing he will continue.

"You blinked, and it was gone - the dirt and blood and the scars." He presses his finger to the blade, absently, "It wasn't like that for me. I had to live with it. Wash it all away by hand. Remember it all. I didn't get to just, make it disappear so I didn't have to think about it."

Castiel understands what is happening here.

"S'just," Dean starts again, faltering, "guess it was pretty easy for you to make it like it never happened. You had it pretty easy, forgetting me."

The words hurt, there's a sharpness under the relaxed country drawl, but Cas doesn't have time to take it too much to heart, because he's figuring it all out now and putting the puzzle pieces together as Dean sits there, not looking at him.

Castiel can see how hard it must have been for Dean, to heal slowly, to be constantly physically reminded, while all Cas had to do was snap his fingers to pretend it'd never happened. He feels how invalidated Dean felt, knowing that every injury he'd helped heal, every mark he himself put on the angel's skin, was simply blinked out of existence. Like it was nothing.

If _it_ was nothing, then _they_ were nothing.

He knows he owes Dean more than that.

Castiel takes a breath, and restores himself to how he was when he first returned - dirty, bloody. He feels the tingle of scars re-puckering his skin and he smells blood and earth. He feels callouses on his hands, from fighting and digging, and starting fires.

It is a peace offering to Dean, to show him solidarity, that he does carry it all around with him too, that he is willing to take his time digging himself out of Purgatory just like Dean has to. That magic Heaven-powers aside, he can't just wipe it all away like he tried.

He steps forward until he's standing right in front of Dean, and the man looks up from his seat on the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning slowly from Castiel's muddy canvas shoes, up to his eyes, catching all the dirt and stubble along the way.

Dean slowly stands, and they're impossibly close, they can feel each other's breath on their lips. Dean runs a finger over Cas' less than smooth jaw, looking him over, before his hands drop to the hem of Castiel's shirt. He pulls it up and off easily, and Castiel watches the man's eyes dart from mark to mark on his scarred-up torso. Dean places a hand solidly a Cas' ribcage, pressed to the fading greens and yellows of what he remembered once to be a terrifyingly dark bruise, feeling warmth under his palm. He traces his fingertips feather-light over a few of the angry red scars from Cas' close encounter with the Leviathans.

Dean takes Cas' hands and leads him to the bed, laying him on his back so that he can lay beside him, lean over him. It feels like hours that they just lay there, Cas' fingers resting lightly against Dean's arms as the man traces all the familiar marks, some from bad memories, some from better times. The latter marks make Dean smile, and he leans down to press his lips to them lightly.

Dean pulls Cas from the bed and takes him to the shower. He washes him gently, reverently, and Castiel's heart beats in his chest for it. Dean treats him, in that moment, as though he is Christ - something to be worshipped.

Cas realizes that Dean's needed this - to take care of someone. To take care of _him_. And maybe Cas has needed it too, to be cared for.

When they are finally warm and clean and dry, they lay down in the bed and fall asleep. Castiel keeps his scars and bruises. They'll heal on their own time.

* * *

_Choppy, but I hope it works. _

_Thanks again for reviewing - it makes me do a happy-dance (that thankfully you will never have to see)._


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty Eight

Once Castiel has recovered from the initial trauma of removing the wall, he is back to his old self. Mostly. He is recovered in that he is strong, solid, his emotions are well-guarded and in control and he seems much the same as he did when the brothers had first met him. Righteous and comfortable with it. But there is a slight change, Sam notices. Cas is tougher-looking. He hasn't gotten any bigger, or any stronger as far as Sam knows, but there's something different about him. An edge to him. It's a mood, a look in his eye, that keeps people glancing at him warily and keeping their distance. He seems wartorn and dangerous.

Dean doesn't have his old edge back yet, his swagger is gone and replaced by hunched shoulders and a tinge of introversion that mixes strangely with his defiant attitude. He's not watching his back like he used to, because he's too distracted by the echoes of Purgatory in his head. He isn't as sure of himself, because he's afraid that his mind will slip away from him.

Castiel however, looks more formidable than ever. His eyes are sharp, his shoulders set, his fists clenched more often than not. He looks mighty, even in his crumpled coat. Sam has witnessed people on the street, grown men, steer clear of Castiel as he passes. He thinks they must have sensed, subconsciously, that Castiel was too strong to beat. That he was angry and that violence was not a stranger to him.

And it is strange, for Sam, to see that look, that attitude, on Castiel, instead of his brother.

But it is even stranger for Dean.

Being too wrecked-up to rebuild his old swagger doesn't mean he isn't aware of its absence. He's well aware of how kill-able he is at this point of time, and he is even more acutely aware of how defiantly tough Castiel has become. Cas has recovered before him, healed faster. Granted, Cas was always stronger. He's not human, he's a warrior of heaven and as such, nearly un-killable. _Them's the facts._ And Dean's always been ok with that. Until now. Because before his return from Purgatory, Dean has always been able to hold his own in a fight, despite his mortality. Now... he gets scared sometimes. And he gets confused. He's playing injured, and he knows it.

Dean is angry that he is weak. He hates knowing it. He hates that Sam knows it. And he hates that Cas knows it. When he's alone with Castiel is the only time Dean feels strong anymore, because he knows that when Cas looks at him, he still sees Purgatory-him.

So Dean takes it upon himself to break Castiel down in the only way he knows he still can.

Power-play was always a big part of their relationship, and Cas has been the strong one far too often. So Dean wants to remind him that he's still in here, still in this body, fighting his way back out. He feels an overwhelming need to prove to the angel that he isn't completely broken. He wants Cas to look at him, and see the man that cut through Leviathans like they were helpless children to get to him.

He kisses him hard and demanding, pushing into his mouth and tugging the coat from his arms without preamble. He pushes his hands up under Cas' shirt, blunt fingers and nails running unforgivingly over his stomach and his sides. Dean growls at the whimpery sound Cas makes. Just kissing and sleeping together hasn't been enough - he's just realizing, it's been way too long since they touched. He isn't sure what he's been waiting for. He surges forward and slams Cas back into the wall, shoving a knee between his thighs and pressing hard. He feels Cas' hands clench against his t-shirted back. Dean rolls his hips against the angel's and Cas shudders, arching to meet the touch. Dean tugs Cas' shirt up over his head and the two slam back together.

Dean nips at Cas' neck and the angel's arms pull him in closer. He dips down and licks first at the pink bud of his nipple, knowing they've never gotten to play like this before, and the gasp Cas lets out, the feeling of his body arching forward, makes Dean smirk against his skin. When he takes it between his teeth, the surprised sound Castiel makes shoots straight to Dean's groin. Dean would say it's a _gasp_, but that doesn't sound manly enough. Castiel gasps gravel and gasoline and smoke - it isn't _cute_, it's fucking masculine.

Dean attacks Castiel's mouth mercilessly, rolling the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching, and enjoying the stutter of Castiel's breath and voice at the action, and the way he can't focus on what his mouth is doing. It gives Dean all the control.

It makes him bizarrely, uniquely happy, to have Castiel a boneless, subjugated beggar under his hands. He wants him to want nothing else but him; he wants for Castiel, even with his infinite senses, to feel nothing but him.

Dean brings both hands to Castiel's hips and grips them with a bruising hold that makes the angel draw in a hissed breath, and he drags their bodies against each other - he knows that Cas is playing fair, letting himself feel things like a mortal and putting away all his excessive strength. When he can see Cas' eyes slide closed, a groan erupting from his lips and his head lolling back against the wall, he smirks. He's got him right where he wants him.

He shoves Cas back against the wall, the angel's eyes snapping open. Dean comes forward, green eyes sharp, smirk dark and wicked, and Castiel swallows hard. Dean crowds him, standing up to his full height, nipping at Castiel's lip sharply before grabbing him hard at the shoulder and pushing down, until Cas is on his knees, trapped between Dean's body and the wall.

Dean thumbs at the angel's mouth, wetting his own bottom lip with his tongue at the sight of the digit pushing between Cas' lips. Castiel holds it tight between his teeth and Dean smirks. He pulls his thumb out and gives Cas' jaw a little smack. Cas' eyes go dark, pupils blown out.

Dan undoes his belt and jeans, barely lowering them, reaching in to pull his cock free and he watches as Castiel's eyes track it, the angel licking his lips when it springs free.

Castiel moves forward, but his head is jerked back before he can get what he wants by Dean's hand gripping tight in his hair. Cas' eyes slide up to Dean's, and when they finally make contact the angel groans lightly. He realizes, that he wants Dean to do whatever he wants to him. And he isn't as scared of the thought as he figured he would be.

Dean feels it. And there's a surge of affection, they both feel it. They accept it, but ignore it. They'll save that for later. They don't have time for romance right now.

Dean holds Cas' head back, expanse of his pale throat exposed, Cas' hand gripping at Dean's wrist. Dean drags the tip of his cock up the length of Cas' throat, leaving a trail of precum. He can feel the angel shudder. He moves over his chin, hissing at the feeling of stubble against the sensitive head, and rests it lightly at Cas' lips. When Cas parts his lips and tries to move forward to take it into his mouth, he is punished with a hard yank at his hair, pulling his head back, so he has no movement, no leverage. His hand is squeezing so hard at Dean's thigh that the man knows he will have a hand-shaped bruise, but Cas seems to be completely oblivious. He's completely caught-up in the moment, and that's what Dean wanted. Dean holds the tip against Cas' bottom lip, until he feels the angel's hot breath against his skin, and precum beads against Castiel's flushed skin. He likes the way it looks, and he smirks down at him when Cas can't help but poke his tongue out to touch it. He's watching Dean's face as he does it, seeing Dean's lips part, his ghost of a smirk, and he knows he isn't going to be punished this time. So he reaches further, and runs his tongue over the slit at the head of Dean's cock.

Dean hisses a breath in and then groans, his eyes sliding closed. Suddenly he opens them, and smirks down at Cas, and Cas smiles back. _This_, feels like home. This game is so familiar, this intimacy - _this_ is right. Dean never looks away, his eyes are sharper than they've been in months as he pushes slowly past Cas' lips into his mouth.

The angel groans at the feeling, not really sure why the act brings him so much relief. He watches Dean's eyes widen as he pushes in and in, until he hits the back of the angel's throat. He groans, running a gentle hand through Cas' hair. Cas lets his tongue play, but he doesn't tip his head forward and suck - not until he's told. This is Dean's game.

Dean looks down at him, biting his lip at the sight, and he brings both hands to the back of Cas' head, tipping it forward. Finally Cas can tighten his lips and suck and his own dick throbs, a glob of precum seeping out at the way Dean groans and cusses. Dean uses his hold on Cas' head to keep him still, and he slowly slides out of his mouth, before sliding back in, and Castiel sees what they're doing and reaches down to palm his aching dick - Dean wants to fuck his mouth, slow and controlled. He wants Cas to dare to let him do whatever he wants.

Cas moans against Dean's cock as he takes it. There's a part of him that growls, that wants to fight and throw Dean down and be the strong one. But it is easily ignored. The rest of him is enjoying this. The part of him that wants to be used, wants to be taken instead of doing the taking, is extremely pleased. He is eager to do his damnedest, and to prove to Dean that he trusts him. To let Dean know that he is strong. He knows how unfair it is that he is all but well, and Dean still struggles - he likes to see the man look like this again, all smirks and bitten lips and confidence. It makes Cas feel things he can't understand, things that have him whimpering and rubbing hard at his own pants.

It's only minutes before their both hot and fuzzy-brained. Cas pulls off, Dean letting him, and groans, panting. "Dean," he begs, voice wrecked.

Dean pulls away just long enough to bend down and undo Cas' pants for him, sliding them down his hips and pulling out his dark-reddened dick. Cas' hand shoots down to it, the other pulling Dean's cock toward him.

Castiel backs up against the wall so he can press his back against it. Dean braces his hands against the wall and looks down at where Castiel's got one hand wrapped around himself, jerking, the other wrapped around Dean, guiding it into his mouth.

Dean can't believe what Cas let's him do, rolling his hips up into his mouth, slowly thrusting - Cas feels so good, and the look of him... Dean doesn't know if he can handle it any longer.

Dean pulls out of his mouth and squeezes one last time before shooting all over Cas' pale clavicle, his chest, one stripe painting a thin line over Cas nipple. Cas touches it, and then looks up at him like he is completely awed. He comes forward, holding the backs of Dean's thighs in his hands, lazily licking and nuzzling at the insides of his thighs. Every time his hot breath or a sneaky brush of lips touches Dean's overstimulated, now softening cock Dean twitches and runs a gentle hand through Cas' hair.

Despite the tremble to his muscles, Dean feels strong and... normal. He feels all at once like the person "Dean" is supposed to be on earth, and the animal that loved and bled for Cas in Purgatory. It's a blissful high that joins both versions of him into one clear-headed man, and he feels sharper than he has since he's been back.

With a heavy sigh, Dean turns and slides down the wall beside Cas, and as soon as his butt hits the ground the angel maneuvers so that he is straddling Dean's lap. Dean pulls him down, gently, to kiss him. It's an innocent thing, closed lipped and sweet.

Cas is fisting his dick between them. Dean knows he must be aching, it must hurt at this point. He leans back against the wall, giving Cas permission to do whatever he wants.

Cas' left hand scrambles to hold Dean's t-shirt up while his right is still stroking. Dean makes it easier, leaning forward to pull his shirt all the way off. He arches when the hot skin of his back touches the cool paint of the wall. He runs his hands over Cas' thighs, touches lightly at his shoulders and clavicle. Cas is in his own world at this point, eyes completely unfocused, face and chest flushed red.

Dean leans forward and captures Cas' nipple in his lips, sucking gently, lavishing the pink bud with almost gentlemanly affection. Cas is groaning above him, another stuttered breath coming every time Dean's tongue swipes over it. Dean loves the sounds he's making - guttural and deep and just, so fucking perfect.

Finally Cas starts shaking, he lays a hand to Dean's chest and pushes him back with his inhuman strength, losing control, Dean's shoulder blades slamming back against the wall. But Dean doesn't give a damn. He watches, his own lip between his teeth as Cas gives his final strokes and shoots hot and white all over Dean's abdomen.

When Cas is done, he doesn't collapse forward onto Dean like the man expects. He sits there, panting, dick in hand, face tipped up toward the ceiling, and smiles. He takes a moment, to even his breath, to appreciate - the fully human _and_ angel feeling of it humming in his body. And then his head tilts down and he looks at Dean with an expression that makes the man swallow drily and wonder how he went so long knowing Cas, and never really seeing how beautiful he was - he is smirking, his blue eyes are sharp, dangerous.

Dean feels like the mouse, captured by the cat who has just realized how much fun he can have playing with him. He likes it.

Cas comes forward and nips at his bottom lip, until Dean seals their lips in a kiss that he owns, hand holding tightly at the back of Cas' neck.

Dean doesn't dare thank him for letting him have this, letting him feel strong. He doesn't have to voice it.

* * *

...

* * *

Dean comes out of the room, grinning to himself at the pep in his own step - but he stops short when he sees his brother at the kitchen table. Sam's eyes glance to his before darting straight back to his computer, a slight blush coming to his cheeks. He gets up and goes to the stove where he's got a sandwich frying.

Dean feels the back of his neck get hot, and a guilty, unsettled feeling creeps up on him. He hadn't known Sam was back, and he definitely hadn't meant for him to have to hear any of that. Him and Sam hadn't even talked about... They hadn't talked about him and Cas yet. Dean knew he knew, to some extent, but he'd never meant for him to have to _know_, like this.

Sam clears his throat, flipping his sandwich and trying desperately to sound normal.

"You want a sandwich?"

"I didn't know you were back," Dean offers lamely.

Sam says nothing for a long moment. His eyes never leave the frying pan, "I called out when I got home, but... you didn't answer. I got nervous."

Dean swallows hard.

"So I went to your room..."

And the thought of Sam, standing outside his bedroom door, hearing him and Cas and knowing without a doubt what they were to each other, is somehow heartbreaking. Dean isn't sure why.

When Dean doesn't say anything Sam starts snappily, "Look it's fine -"

"Sam -"

"It's fine, Dean. I mean... I guess I already knew."

"I wanted to talk to you about it," Dean tells him quietly, "but, I..."

"Whatever. No need to get all... lifetime movie network about it, right?" Sam jokes. And Dean does give a little laugh, but the uneasiness in him doesn't go away.

"So," Sam starts again, "you want a sandwich or what?"

* * *

_Sorry for the wait, lovely readerlings. For some reason I had a lot of anxiety posting this chapter... Alas, there it was. I hope you liked it. We're rounding the corner to wrapping this story up. A few more..._


	29. Chapter 29

_Soooooo..._

_I'm back! First off, I have to say that real life gets really friggin' weird sometimes. Like... really weird. So I'm sorry that I disappeared on you. I haven't had enough time to devote to the boys here. But I've got some chapters coming to you in what I'm going to loosely call "rapid succession". Hopefully you like what happens next. (fingers crossed)_

_I really appreciate the encouraging reviews! Thanks you guys! (Also, it's nice to know that when I disappear mid-thought on a story, someone out there is like, "Wait, wtf? What happens next?" It is pleasing to know there is someone other than me reading this.)_

_There's gonna be a lot of montage-ing happening in the next couple of chapters, so heed the ellipses. _

* * *

Chapter Twenty Nine

Sam feels bad for being snappy with Dean, but he isn't ready to talk about it. Not yet. Not until he can figure what's what. And for him, Dean being with Cas, as more than just friends or comrades or war buddies... just doesn't work in his brain. He knows that in reality, it's not that outlandish that they've got something more than they did before Purgatory. They've always been weirdly connected. But there's just too much going on in Sam's head for him to deal with the idea of it - he's got Dean to worry about. He's got himself and monsters and Crowley, and Kevin Tran, and Cas (and his loyalties), and tablets and the _world_ to worry about. And he doesn't want to think about the fact that he might be letting some superhuman betrayer take advantage of his brother's weakness... sexually.

But the doubt is still there. The fear, that maybe Cas is still bad. Maybe Cas is just using Dean, and then he's gonna leave again...

Sam's pretty forgiving. He was just about there with Cas, just about ready to let it all go. Or so he thought. And then he'd walked in yesterday, and heard...

He heard a voice, not his brother's, distinctly sexual in it's moaning and grunting, he heard the slapping of skin against skin, and heavy breath, and he almost kicked the door down because the idea of Cas - the _new God_ who lost his marbles after nearly decimating Heaven and humanity and then dragged Dean through Purgatory until he was ripped-up and broken - using his broken brother to get-off, was sickening. Infuriating. Dean was _broken_, and Cas wanted to fuck him? All that he'd taken, and he was still taking more? From the one person who didn't have anything left to give?

That's when Sam realized, he wasn't over it. He wasn't ok with Cas yet. And as he turns on the stove and flips open his computer and pretends not to be thinking about storming in there and stabbing Castiel in the chest, he becomes more and more indignant. How could Dean not tell him? How could Cas dare touch him?

But then, he sees Dean come out smiling like he hasn't in years. He looks light and content. And _again_ Sam has to reconsider what he thinks about _them_. Because for a split second... Dean looks happy. He looks pleased and cheeky and put together and so remarkably like _himself_.

Until of course he sees Sam and reality comes crashing down on both of them.

Sam realizes, that he has to take some time, _use his brain_ as Jess always encouraged him to do when he wanted to bulldoze through a problem with a strong arm and a hard head (the John Winchester method). So Sam makes the conscious effort, if only to see Dean smile again, to try and understand them.

And Sam sees a lot of things differently after that. He has to. Cas isn't going anywhere, and him and Dean are turning out to be much more serious than he anticipated. They are rarely apart, and Sam can hear them sometimes, rustling in the sheets, talking quietly to each other. He tries to avoid getting in their way. He gives them their space when he can, he tries to keep his distance from their safe place, Dean's bedroom, and doesn't mention the obvious sight of hickeys or kiss-swollen lips and mussed-up hair.

He doesn't joke it off. He should, but he doesn't. He's just not there yet.

Their cohesion makes him feel strange - he is jealous but glad, irritated but appreciative, disgusted but curious, all at once.

Despite himself, his heart warms to Castiel more everyday, though his frustration and mistrust do not entirely cease. That too, is confusing. And he opens his mind to the idea of them, as a _them_, a little more all the time. But still, it is jarring to witness.

Sam sees all kinds of things now that he's opened his eyes to their relationship. He sees moments he would have missed before, or tried not to think about - touches and glances and unspoken knowledge. And every time, despite its awkwardness, it helps him wrap his mind around what they have.

...

Sam sees Castiel calm Dean down after he burns himself on the stove, having had one of his episodes while trying to cook himself some food. Sam can see the frustration boiling over in his brother, who before Purgatory was pathologically self-reliant, and now is livid to find that he cannot even trust himself to complete simple tasks with any measure of the success he would have achieved without sparing a thought or an ounce of effort before this all happened. He clutches his burnt forearm, jaw clenched hard, the need to destroy clearly written on his face. But Castiel crowds him, whispers things that Sam can't hear, is undeterred by Dean's harsh attempt to shove the him away.

Castiel merely crowds closer, pressing his face to Dean's neck and his hand over Dean's as it clutches the burn.

Sam sees Dean slowly relax; he sees his jaw and forehead go smooth, his shoulders lose their tension and his hands un-fist, until the two are simply standing against one another.

When Cas steps away, Dean's injury is gone and he begrudgingly turns back to the stove to try again.

...

He sees Dean holding Cas from behind as the angel sits crumpled and frustrated in a rickety kitchen chair, clutching his head from the ache of separation from Heaven; Dean kisses the top of his head, nuzzling into his hair, whispering things Sam could not imagine.

...

Sam watches them sit, so close together, on the couch like any couple would. Dean's hand is resting on the inside of Cas' knee as he drinks his coffee; Castiel is completely unbothered by the touch, reading an ancient book in a language Bobby was never able to translate.

...

He sees Cas watching Dean.

He's fought off one of his episodes, without help. Just stubbornly refused to go blank. Sam and Cas were at opposite ends of the room, both watching but not intervening, wanting to see if Dean would pull himself out of it on his own. When he does, Sam's eyes don't stay with him, but instead go to Cas, who is watching Dean intently. There is affection on his face, clear to Sam even through the angelic mask of quizzical aloofness.

...

Sam freezes when he sees it -

Dean and Cas are there in the kitchen, trading deadly, expert maneuvers, Dean with knife in hand. Sam doesn't have time to come forward, to try to interject, before Castiel is pinning Dean bent backward over the stove, the knife in Dean's own hand held at his throat as a result of the angel's clever move.

Sam's eyes widen in terror, but then... Dean smiles.

And Cas smiles.

And Dean says, "I'm gonna get you one of these days," and chuckles when Castiel leans down to bite his neck.

There is the rustle of clothing and quiet talk as the two men straighten out, returning to washing and drying plates as they had been doing previously, and Sam sidesteps quickly behind the wall.

He'd known this. He had. There were no doubts in his mind as to the nature of his brother's relationship with Castiel at this point. But actually _seeing_ it...

That was an entirely different feeling than just knowing it.

He hears Dean's heavy footfalls as he walks out of the room. Sam takes a deep breath, shaking his head and trying to collect himself to make it seem like he was just coming into the room.

But as soon as he turns the corner, he gasps - because Castiel is standing right in front of him.

"Jesus, Cas..." Sam exhales heavily.

"I apologize-" he states flatly.

"That's ok-"

"-if you were made... uncomfortable."

Sam swallows hard and feels his cheeks get hot. Of course Castiel had known he was there. He's a friggin' angel. "Oh... uh..." he glances up, but his eyes dart away again immediately, because Cas is doing that thing where he stares right into the core of you... as though it's easy as pie, and completely normal. "I wasn't trying to spy."

"I know," Cas says certainly. "You thought I might hurt him."

"No, no," Sam tries to cover quickly. But then he doesn't bother. He knows who he is talking to. "It just looked..."

Castiel nods, looking away. "I wouldn't," he states suddenly, and Sam nods as if to say _of course_. "Not ever again. Not either of you," Cas promises, eyes holding fast to Sam's.

Sam can't think of anything to say but... oddly he finds himself believing him, or at least wanting to. He's been burned by Cas before, but this time, he really believes him. He just knows somehow, that the angel will stay right.

"Cas..." he starts, and then falters, not sure if he wants to do this or not... "You love him, right? I mean, that's what this is? Because... he's been through a lot. And I think he really... I don't know, he's really... _attached_ to you. And he's my brother and I gotta look out for him -"

"Yes," Cas interrupts, "I do... _love_ him." He says the word out loud as though he's never said it before, and it tastes new and difficult in his mouth. And Sam realizes, Cas never _has_ said it before. Suddenly he blurts, "You know if you screw him over I'll kill you."

Castiel looks at him sheepishly, "That would be extremely difficult for you."

Sam's eyebrows raise.

"But..." Castiel starts awkwardly, knowing he's missed some sort of social cue, "ok... I... I will keep that in mind."

The way he says it, as if he's not sure if it's the correct response but he's taking a shot in the dark, makes Sam laugh. He shakes his head and pats Cas on the shoulder. He feels a lot lighter all the sudden.

...

Sam catches Cas and Dean, late one night, sleeping fully-clothed in the bathtub.

Of course, Castiel doesn't really sleep. So when Sam's thoughts dial down enough for him to really look at them again, naturally Castiel's blue eyes are open and focused on him.

Suddenly, as he often does nowadays, Sam feels as though he is intruding. "Oh - sorry - I just -"

"It's ok," Castiel says quietly. "He is very soundly asleep. He was very tired."

Sam can't really think of a response, so he just nods. For a moment they are quiet, and Sam can feel Cas' eyes on him as he takes in the sight of his brother, sleeping like a baby curled up to the angel's side.

"I suppose I am not as accustomed to human slumber rituals as the both of you, but I imagine that sleeping beside the toilet as opposed to in one's bed is somewhat unusual?" Castiel supposes drily.

Sam can't help but huff a little laugh. "Yeah, you could say that."

"He's become a strange man, by normal standards," Castiel says with genuine concern, looking down at Dean's face.

Sam asks quietly, "Was it a rough night?"

Castiel watches Dean's face, never looks away, "He became... confused."

Sam nods.

"He didn't know where you were."

Sam's eyebrows raise.

"I tried to assure him that you were on your way back, but... he insisted that we go out and hunt for you." Castiel hesitates before adding, "Search the forrest."

Sam's eyebrows draw together as he realizes Dean had panicked, because he thought his little brother was out there all alone in Purgatory.

Cas offers, "I tried to explain to him where we were, that you are safe, but..."

"Yeah I know," Sam consoles the angel gently. He knows how awful it feels to not be able to help Dean in those moments. Yeah you know it's out of your control, but still, you feel like an awful failure not being able to pull him out of it.

Sam appreciates Cas telling him this. He's felt oddly lonely since the two of them have become one giant maladjusted person stuck in their own little world of love and confusion and their own secret history. He's felt... forgotten. So as sad as he is to hear that Dean was upset, he is glad to know that his brother missed him.

In that moment, Sam finally looks at all of these moments he's witnessed between his brother and the angel from a new perspective. If they stick together, and if they get this right, Dean might be... _happy_. Maybe for the first time, Dean will feel loved and accepted and whole. And that's nothing to feel bitter about, or be jealous of. It's something to encourage, to cherish.

Dean's always been alone. With Dad, when Sam himself was in college making friends and loving Jessica with his whole heart. Or he's been alone, with a string of acquaintances to warm his bed but not his heart. Or he's been with Sam, enjoying brotherly love, but never having someone to give himself to. And that's sad. Because Dean deserves to be loved. Sam wagers he'd be good at it.

And here's this guy - this semi-immortal, totally knocked-around guy, who could literally be anywhere doing anything and he's _here_ in the middle of the night, laying in a cold, hard bathtub just to make sure Dean feels safe. Just to make sure he gets some sleep.

Cas may have fucked up royally, but he has something to offer Dean that no one else could, not even Sam, despite his willingness to give anything for his brother. He could never make him feel whole the way Cas will. There's some things that Dean needs that family can't give him.

Sam doesn't feel so much like the odd man out anymore. His brother will always love him. And Sam will never _lose_ him to anybody. They'll never stop being brothers just because Dean's heart is finally big enough, open enough, for more than just Sam.

Sam is glad Cas is here. He's glad Dean's got someone to hold him through the night.

And the way Cas looks at Sam now, nervous and vulnerable and hoping, lets him know that the angel can _feel_ the shift between them, and knows that Sam doesn't hate him anymore.

...

Dean has more good days than bad now. But he still isnt' right. And it breaks Sam's heart. He can't stand to see his brother struggling like this. On his bad days Dean looks tired and sickly, ever so slightly hunched over, as if breaking in on himself; his eyes are dark and shadowed beneath, leaving him looking gaunt and unfocused.

On this night, Cas sends him to bed early, and Dean doesn't even have it in him to protest the childish treatment. He simply takes the angel's hand and follows him, shaky and bent in on himself like he's hiding from a cold wind.

Sam can hear them, from his seat at the kitchen table - Castiel puts him to bed, tucking him in, and Dean asks, voice so childlike, if Cas is gonna leave him alone, if he's gonna be there in the morning.

Cas runs a hand over his hair and promises that he won't leave. And Dean simply says _Ok_, like a little kid who doesn't know how not to believe him.

The moment strikes Sam hard.

Dean is so ... vulnerable. He is needy and off-center like a traumatized child. Cas is rough and wartorn, strong enough to care for him when Dean can only hold himself tight and squeeze his eyes shut and pray that Sam and Cas don't disappear on him.

Sam doesn't realize how deep in his thoughts he is until he hears Castiel sitting down across from him. The look the angel gives him lets him know, he can tell Sam is struggling.

"I've never seen him like this..." Sam admits quietly. "I mean, I've seen him down. I've seen him so low I didn't know if there was coming back... but... he was still... _Dean_. He was still defiant and mouthy, even when he was ready to go down with the ship. _This_... he's..." Sam's voice catches in his throat. His eyes scan the table, trying to find the words. "He's _vulnerable_." Then he adds, practically in a whisper, as though it is the most scandalous thing he could say, "He's not... with-it." His eyes meet Castiel's, their hazel color darkened and glassy, and he admits, finally, "It's scaring the crap out of me."

"Because he's weak," Castiel states flatly. There is ever so slightly and edge to the word, as though he resents the implication.

For a moment Sam's hackles raise, but it extinguishes almost immediately. He swallows thickly and admits in a soft voice, "Yes."

Castiel's eyes soften.

Dean had always gone without being cared for, as a child, and then as a man. And while it was something his soul may have wanted deeply, it was never strictly needed for his survival that he be taken care of. Not like it was now.

And Castiel was seeing Sam realize that now. All that Dean had gone without, compounding down on the man until he couldn't cross the street without someone there to hold his hand and tell him it was going to be ok.

In that moment Castiel realized, miraculously, how terrifying it all must be for Sam.

Sam who'd always been the baby, the one Dean tried to take care of, the one Dean wouldn't allow to take care of him. The one Dean put on the brave face for. To see that all disappear, was taking its toll on the younger Winchester. And Castiel finally understood, in that flash of a second, the way the brothers worked, better than he ever had before. And in that moment, he pitied Sam Winchester.

Seeing one's hero broken was a terrible thing. Castiel knew that Dean had suffered that, watching his father disappear into the thing that became John Winchester - Hunter first, father second. It was the first of many heavy loads Dean had to carry in life.

Castiel looks at Sam, sees him choking it all down, trying to be tough, emotionless - trying to be Dean. He lays his hands over Sam's, half startling the man with the outright act of comfort, human affection.

"It's not forever," Castiel offers.

"You don't know that," Sam responds weakly. "He could be really broken this time. Like, forever..."

Castiel withdraws his hand, looking down at the table and shaking his head. "I found Dean in Hell. Then, he was broken."

Sam eyes go wide as they snap up to Castiel's; he is shocked and fascinated by this turn in the conversation, into the forbidden territory that is Dean's time in Hell, the start of their profound bond. It wasn't something either of them talked about; Dean's tour in Hell was a conversation off limits. And Castiel's words echo in Sam's head, along with those of his brother's curbside confession from long ago.

_Then, he was broken._

"Now..." Castiel starts, but he sighs, running out of words. "Now he is just... lost. Bleeding." Castiel looks up at Sam, "It'll stop."

"When?" Sam asks in an awed whisper, as though Castiel is God himself.

Castiel shrugs, but he is certain, "When he lets it."


	30. Chapter 30

_We're in the homestretch people. I seem to be having some trouble with my alerts - as in, they're not alerting. So it's possible some subscribers didn't get the message that I posted the previous chapter yesterday._

_This chapter is stupid-long. But there's cute brotherly love and destiel sexy-times, so you have to forgive me. It's in my contract..._

* * *

Chapter Thirty

Sam has been notably different, very friendly with Cas and very accepting of their... whatever it is they have. It isn't as though he comes right out and says it, but Dean can feel that the tension has dissipated. He teases them sometimes, which feels so much more normal than the whole thing being treated delicately, with silence.

It makes Dean unmeasurably happy.

But still, he feels the slightest distance, between him and his brother.

It is rare that Dean wants to talk it out. He never really feels the need to put it all out there and vent and explain his feelings. Usually the thought of such an exchange makes him roll his eyes and stalk off in the other direction. But now he finds himself in a uniquely different position - he has a strange, desperate need to _talk_ about things with Sam. And Sam is acting... well, like him.

Dean feels the need to explain himself, and Sam is very uncharacteristically not offering him the opportunity to do so. For some reason, he wants Sam to ask, so that he has to answer. Even though he knows it'll be painful, and difficult. Maybe it's the noticeable difference between making Cas understand something, and making Sam understand something, but now that he and Cas have their Vulcan-neural-expressway, it's making every other conversation Dean has extremely difficult. He wants Sam to understand him like Cas does, to just know that he is sincere without him having to fumble over the words. But he knows he's gonna have to.

In true Winchester tradition, he waits until he's got him trapped in the car.

He glances over, and Sam is looking fairly relaxed, driving and tapping his finger to some folksy indie rock song that Dean abstractly recognizes as not being his style. But you leave a guy alone with your car for a year and he makes himself at home. What can ya do?

"When I was in Hell..." Dean starts out of the blue, even surprising himself that this is where he apparently chooses to start. He can feel Sam glance toward him, he can feel Sam's surprise, his eagerness for Dean to say more and nervousness that he shouldn't hear whatever he's about to. Dean continues, "I broke. I gave up. Like everything in me just... snapped and I did what I had to do to not get..." He doesn't have to put words to the torture, he knows Sam understands. More now than the first time they talked about it.

"I was selfish. Cruel. I was turning," Dean admits. When he sees Sam squinting ahead, listening hard he clarifies, "Demon."

"Dean," Sam tries to argue, his voice sympathetic.

But Dean stops him with the raise of a hand. "The things I saw, that I did... they were... It was all evil, and bloody and... trapping. Like a cage, made out of the worst parts of yourself. Where you're stuck, looking at every terrible thing you are, and that you've done and that they can do to you, until you're just so fucking warped that you _own_ it. You turn. Because you can't stand it. So you have to... embrace it."

Dean can hear Sam swallow.

"I still hate myself for going so easily-"

Sam is about to protest again, and Dean appreciates his brother's steadfast defense, but again he stops him.

"I know I've been... I know I'm acting like a friggin' loon, since I got back, but... Purgatory wasn't like that. Purgatory was nowhere _near_ being like Hell."

Dean hopes that this information will ease some of his brother's tension. He himself feels better for letting him know. He feels like he's on the right path, so he continues, "It was an endless forever of forest and fighting and... distance from earth. Hell was... it was the constant reminder earth, of everything you lost. Everything you just couldn't have again. It was dangling earth right in front of you and saying _see all that? Never again_. But Purgatory was just... so far. It looked like home, I guess, in some ways. But, it wasn't. It didn't feel like here. It was slow, and hot and cold at the same time, and like being at war in another universe where you just... slowly _forget_. Every monster we've ever ganked, and so much shit we'd never even heard of..." Dean takes a deep breath.

"It got hard, after awhile, to remember. Or maybe it was just easier not to, I don't know. But it didn't hurt to be there," Dean admits. "It just... It didn't break me. Didn't snap me apart into the worst I could be, make me wish I could be like I was, so that when I got back, I knew exactly how to act again. It _changed_ me. I, we, _evolved_. We had to."

Sam nodded to show he was listening. He tried to understand.

"But it's more than that." Dean's heart thuds in his chest as he tries to put words to the truth of it all. "Cas saved my life. He had the chance to get out, Heaven tried to pull him out, ya know? But, he didn't go. He wouldn't leave me."

Sam takes in this information, and a feeling of gratitude for Cas for coming through when Dean really needed it flooding him.

"I was dead," Dean admits.

Sam's head whips to the side and he stares at his brother open-mouthed. Dean motions to the road and Sam reluctantly turns forward.

"I was barely in Purgatory an hour, and I was ripped to shreds. Cas, he... he saved my life. He gave me something... a piece of him. And he got a piece of me. Now we're... We're connected somehow. Mixed together. Literally. Like, his Grace and my soul."

The car is silent for a few minutes as Dean lets Sam try to wrap his head around it.

"We lived there together, me and him, surviving and fighting and...bedding down together... for _centuries_ it felt like." His voice goes soft, "A lifetime." And softer still, "Together." Then Dean's voice goes dark and proud, "And we were unbeatable. There wasn't a damn thing could get to us."

Sam can see, in his mind, how it makes sense - Dean and Cas, feral and free and just... together. No angels or demons dicking them around, no responsibilities but to each other, no weight of the world. And he feels overwhelmed by how much it all suddenly makes sense - the animal way of Dean when he got back, the devotion, the desperate fucking _need_ for him to get Cas back, and the refusal to heed Sam's meagre earthly warnings about the angel. He doesn't realize he's pulled off to the side of the road until he can feel Dean adjusting awkwardly beside him.

"I need you to be ok with this," Dean rasps out, so quietly that Sam wonders if he meant to say it loud at all.

Sam can't find the words, and Dean's stomach feels leaden as he waits.

Finally, Sam nods.

Relief flits through the car, in one window and out the other, like a breeze. It feels good. For both of them.

After a moment Sam puts the car back in drive and eases back onto the road. There are things he wants to say, but doesn't know how to start. So he just goes for it.

"You were gone for a whole year. It's like this... big, blacked out segment of your life that... I don't know anything about. And then you came back and you couldn't tell me. _Anything_. You didn't even mention Cas," Sam tries to express his worry and confusion.

Dean looks down at his hands. "The world was... too much," he admits. "Everything, all of it. Just... too much. And," he swallows nervously, "and getting ripped away from him... it fucking tore me up. It felt like half my brain, my soul, got ripped out through my nose Egyptian-style. And I'm not sayin' it to be dramatic - I literally felt like my brain went through a blender. Nothin' made sense."

Sam's hands tighten on the wheel, "I'm sorry, Dean-"

"No," Dean interrupts, looking apologetic. "No, that's not what I... Sammy, I'm glad you got me outta there. You know I woulda done the same. I just... I came back all fucked up, with pieces of me missing. And there's no way that's your fault. I just... wanted you to know, it's not because I didn't trust you, or because I wasn't grateful. I just... _couldn't_... get the words out. Still can't," he jokes self-deprecatingly, giving a little laugh.

Sam nods, glad to have an explanation.

"It gets better, all the time," Dean tells him. "I'm almost there." He hears Sam take a breath, trying to keep it even. "When we were there, we didn't talk. Not for years," he admits. "We didn't _need_ to, somehow." Dean looks down at his hands again, "Maybe we should've left it alone. Maybe we crossed some line. But, I realized... that I was never gonna know anyone like I know him. And I was never gonna love some poor woman who has no idea what she's getting into with me, as honestly as I love Cas. He knows the worst parts of me. And God knows I know his sordid bullshit. But... I still think he's..." Dean isn't sure what he wants to say - _beautiful, perfect, worth it. All of the above._ And if he were talking to Castiel, he wouldn't have to boil what he felt down into measly words.

That's the point.

"Look," Dean starts, sounding so much like himself that Sam almost laughs out loud from relief, "you got questions, ask 'em. I'll... try to answer. I don't want it to be like it was with Hell. It wasn't as bad as all that. And, when I get better," he can practically hear Sam's fists tighten on the wheel, "we'll be able to talk about it like it was a damn camping trip." Dean takes a breath, "I know you wanna know, so when things come up I'll just... _talk_, I guess," he says with such disdain for the cursed thing known as _communication_ that Sam recognizes so well.

Sam's eyes feel hot and he's pretty sure it's just from the overwhelming volume of all he's learned, but he feels like he needs to laugh or scream and exhale until he collapses. Instead he just keeps his eyes on the road and squeaks out a rough, "Thanks, man."

After a quiet moment, Dean seizes the opportunity to prove to his brother that he is gonna be strong again one day, that he remembers himself... and he makes a totally inappropriate joke.

"Doesn't hurt that Cas is a wildcat in the sack."

"Ugh, God - Dean," Sam winces, shaking his head and laughing, and Dean laughs too.

It feels good to laugh again. It practically erupts out of them. It's a trembling thing, full of relief, borderline hysterical with it.

It feels good for Dean to tease his brother, "Seriously, man's a machine. You'd never know it, but he's got all this sexual frustration just pent-up inside -"

"Ugh - dude stop!" Sam chucks a balled-up sandwich wrapper at him.

"Like, millions of years worth," Dean intentionally ignores him, knowing he's grossing him out perfectly.

Sam shakes his head with a grimace as Dean chuckles quietly and a moment of easy quiet comes over them.

"So then... you guys do... you know..." Sam suddenly feels the need to clear his throat. Sam isn't sure why he needs to know for sure, maybe mostly because it's hard to wrap his mind around. He's as much as heard the proof, but still, hearing Dean verbally acknowledge it, _sincerely_ and not just in jest, might make it easier to accept.

"Not... not all the way," Dean admits feeling suddenly nervous.

Sam nods, and there is a severely awkward moment between them.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, "This is really fucking weird, isn't it?"

Sam can't help but laugh, "Yeah. Yes. It is. But..." He takes a moment to consider how he wants to say it, "But I'm glad we're... you know... talking about... stuff."

"_Ugh_, oh no," Dean complains, pretending to detest the sentimentality, but Sam just rolls his eyes. Finally Dean admits, reluctantly, "Yeah, me too."

There is another, less uncomfortable, moment of quiet in which Dean musters his wherewithal to ask what needs to be asked. Of his little brother. Who he just explained his gay love for an angel to.

"Um," he clears his throat, "speaking of which, Cas and I were wonderin' if... if uh," Dean's mouth moves around as if he is physically struggling to say the words.

Sam raises his eyebrows waiting, but finds himself too impatient. "What?"

"Nothin'. We were just wonderin' if we could uh, maybe, have the house to ourselves. Tonight.. or another night, whatever you-"

"Oh!" Sam suddenly gets it, and finds himself equally as uncomfortable as Dean. Which he realizes, abstractly, is odd. Because Dean has 'sexiled' him more than a few times, easily and without shame. Sex has never really been blush-worthy for him. That's when Sam realizes fully how different this is, and it makes him glad.

He also wonders how many counties away he's gonna have to be before it doesn't feel weird to just... _know_ it's happening...

He tries not to think about it, and just gives his brother the affirmative.

* * *

Castiel is sitting in Dean's bedroom, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, hands nervously fidgeting and shaky. He feels, and he isn't sure how, that he and Dean are going to become something... _more_ today.

He _wants_, oh God does he want. But he's also strangely nervous. There's only one thing he and Dean haven't shared at this point in their relationship. It is deliciously, torturously, inevitable.

He hears the front door close and knows it's him. He gets up from the bed on momentarily wobbly legs, and crosses through the few rooms separating them. He's holding his breath.

When Castiel turns the corner, he sees Dean hasn't moved from the threshold. He is standing just inside the house, eyes wide with anticipation, hand fisted nervously and shoulders high, just staring at Cas. Cas examines the nervous set of his body, feels the way his own is taut and fit to snap. They're both there, a room apart, only the distance of the floor between them, staring at each other.

Neither of them are sure who moves first, but before anything is said they're both walking, until they're not walking but slammed together, bodies pressed tight, kissing as if they haven't seen each other in days.

Their hands are careful at first but demanding against clothed bodies, and little strips of warm skin - under t-shirts, above their collars. But the more they touch, the less careful they are, less delicate and hesitant and wondering if they can do this, if they're ready for this. After enough closeness, thighs pressed tight, lips opening and tongues searching and teeth nipping... they don't fucking care.

Suddenly, as if a rip-cord is pulled, they need more. They need everything.

Neither is sure if it's the anticipation or the determined, open-mouthed kissing, or the way Dean's hands are leaving bruises at Cas' hip bones or the way that Cas is biting Dean's lip every time the man dares to come up for air, or _all of it_, but in that moment... everything feels right. _Purgatory_-right. The kind of right that's laced with unrepentant freedom.

Dean's hands yank ruthlessly at the back of Cas' shirt, pulling up hard, so that he can get to his skin, and trying, incoherently, to tell the angel to let him get it off. Finally Dean yanks so hard that the angel is jostled free of their kiss and Dean uses the opportunity to yank the shirt up over his head. Nearly cussing out loud at the sight of Castiel's popping free of that piece of clothing, lips red, eyes wide and determined, hair a mess.

He likes the way Cas looks, bare-chested, disheveled, eyes glinting darkly like a man whose gone completely, off-the-rails insane. He's weirdly beautiful - like Dean should be terrified, but instead he's just... so fucking turned on.

They're moving together, oblivious to the world around them, turning about like a leaf caught in a riotous breeze. And it feels so natural that there is hardly any note of how easily shirts are pulled off, and pants are undone. Dean doesn't notice how effortless and easy this all is until he's fighting with his bootlaces as Cas is pulling at the denim of his jeans (Dean almost kneeing Cas in the face as a result) and their frantic efforts combine to make each task more difficult. He gives a short laugh and Cas glances at him, first blankly, nothing but pink-cheeked, dark-eyed lust on his face, and then breaks into a smile of his own. And Dean slows him down by kissing him, deep and sweet, like warm Purgatory afternoons rinsing in the water or lying in the cave. And of course, it isn't until this moment of pause that Dean happens to glance over Cas' shoulder and huff a short laugh, Cas' gaze following, and they see how much damage they've done to the room around them - chair tipped over from Castiel backing up toward the bedroom pulling Dean with him blindly, books and cups strewn on the floor after Cas kissed Dean into the table, Cas' shirt laying over the couch back and Dean's somehow half in the sink, empty beer cans toppled over beside it. They look at each other, Cas raises and eyebrow and Dean smirks...

And it is _on_.

The kiss is more like battle, both pleased at the worthiness of their opponent. They do whatever they can to get one-up on each other in order to be the one who slams the other against the wall, has him at their mercy. They flip around, Cas shoving Dean up against the wall, and a piece of faded water-stained mediocre art slips from its nail and crashes to the floor. They fight for dominance, and though Castiel's got him wincing, back pressed against the doorjamb, the angel's thigh pressed snug between his, Dean knows what he has to do to throw Cas completely off.

Cas is rocking against him, nipping at his neck, and Dean knows he thinks he's won. So he slides his palms all the way up Castiel's sides until he can stretch his thumbs out to flick at Cas' nipples. He feels the breath Cas draws in, so sharply, against his neck. He pinches and Cas winces, buckling minutely - Dean takes his chance.

He flips them around, slamming Cas against the wall and pinning him there with a hand pressed to the base of his throat - not enough to choke him, just enough to keep him pressed there. He brings his lips to Cas' chest, finding the sensitive pink bud easily and sucking, nipping, flicking with his tongue until Cas' head is thrown back and his hips are jutting forward. Dean tangles a hand harshly in Cas' hair, knowing he likes it, and sets to work on his throat while his other hand trails hotly, slowly down until he's palming Cas through his pants. He can feel the hard line of him, and it makes him spectacularly pleased.

He pulls Cas off the wall, turning the hopeless angel around and pushing him toward the bedroom.

Dean starts kissing him as they walk, backing Cas up until he grunts, his butt hitting an end table. Dean pulls away just long enough to glance at the inconvenient table, coming right back to Cas' lips, reaching blindly and throwing the table over with a crash. Cas smiles into his lips, kicking the debris out of the way as Dean immediately moves to back him up against the wall nearest to the bedroom.

Dean bites at his neck, each sharp nip has Cas grunting, or biting his own lip, and scraping his nails down Dean's chest, causing him to growl.

Cas fists his hand in the short hair at the back of Dean's head. He pulls, forcing Dean's lips away from his own and forcing that wince that looks so fucking good on him. Dean opens his eyes, green somehow so vibrant and so dark all at once, and looks at him. Cas unleashes the full force of his eyes to demand without words -

_Take me to the bedroom. _

Dean's stomach flips and he barely scratches out a "Fuck."

They kiss hard and brutal, and if it wasn't them, there might not be anything sensual about it, but they both know how they feel, so it works for them. Cas is plundering Dean's mouth unforgivingly, his hands working frenziedly at his jeans.

Dean manhandles him into the bedroom, finally, and just moves blindly until they topple onto the bed, the only thing left on their bodies being their pants. Dean chuckles as Cas once again sets to ridding him of them, so eager.

Cas pushes Dean back and back until Dean falls off the bed, just able to catch himself and remain upright before he ends up in an undignified sprawl on the floor. Cas smirks evilly and Dean glares with a warning, but it is not entirely effective when a moment later his eyes go dark with lust as Castiel kneels on the edge of the bed, reaches forward and finally tugs those damn jeans and underwear down to Dean's knees. Dean lets out a long breath when he springs free of his pants, hard and pointing upward. He looks down to see Cas smirking at him with this _look_, ridiculously perfect in it's glint of mischief.

Cas trails his lips and tongue up Dean's abdomen as the man kicks his pants the rest of the way off with a distracted curse.

Then Cas goes quiet and coy, laying back against the mattress, all laid out for him. He smirks at how easy Dean is, completely brainless as he comes forward to slip his finger in the waist of Castiel's pants. Castiel watches with a smile as Dean tugs them down roughly, Cas' whole body jerking with the man's effort to disrobe him. He can see Dean's eyes go hungry when his cock springs out and the pants are ripped all the way off; Dean throws them over his shoulder, immediately moving to come down on top of Cas.

But as soon as Dean's above him, Cas uses his admirable strength to grab the unsuspecting man, throw him down on the bed and kiss him roughly.

Their hands are frenzied in their exploration of each other's _finally_ bared skin, and Dean shivers when he feels Cas poking against his hip, leaving a little wetness there.

Cas bites the juncture of his neck and shoulder, rubbing himself against Dean's hip with a groan and chuckling into Dean's skin when he can feel the man thinking-

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, it's actually happening, fucking god, yes..._

Cas wraps a hand around Dean's hard length, if only to shut up his riotous mind. It works. Dean lets out an airy sound, jerking up into his hand.

Cas moves over Dean, centering himself, biting at his lip while he takes them both in one hand. Dean cusses as they slide together until Dean is throbbing and Cas is so eager that he just stares down at where his hand is gripping them both, their cocks sliding together, both heads slipping up through his fist. He is entirely entranced by the sight, and the look on his face... Dean can barely handle it. He knows they're both close, and he knows that Cas is completely gone, watching.

He uses that to his advantage.

Dean surges up and flips them both over. And right when Cas has caught his breath Dean shocks him again, flipping him over onto his stomach and pinning his wrists down to the mattress when he tries to get back up.

Dean can literally feel the thrill that runs through the angel.

Dean puts his weight on Cas' wrists, pinning them to the mattress, and he nuzzles his way down his neck, across his shoulders, to the valley of his back between his shoulderblades with an open searching mouth, hot, wet tongue and blunt teeth. There he licks and nips and feels Cas tremble at the inexplicable sensation. Dean can feel Cas realize that it's because of his hidden, intangible wings that the area is so sensitive, and he chuckles into the angel's skin because... how the fuck did _he_ know that if Cas didn't?

Cas shifts a little onto his side and Dean slides up higher over his body to meet his lips. He lets Cas' hand slip from his hold and he reaches down, stroking Dean where he is pressed against his ass cheek. Cas moans into Dean's mouth - it feels so good to be touching him again.

Dean pulls from their kiss, his head tipping back at the feel of Cas hand touching slow and light. He brings his own hand to his mouth, sucking on two fingers, and Cas watches, transfixed, as he then pulls the slicked fingers out and they disappear from view as he reaches down.

Dean spreads Cas' legs, settling between them. He touches, feather-light, feeling Cas' muscles twitch. Dean watches Cas' face as he pushes against the tight ring of his entrance, pressing through against the force of his tightening muscle; Dean's mouth opens, his eyes sharp like a hawk as he watches Cas' eyes squeeze closed, his jaw flex, his hands fist in the sheets. Dean presses into him carefully, opening him up.

"More," Cas demands, gravelly.

Dean obliges instantly, pressing in two fingers, and swallows hard when Cas groans, pulling on the sheets in his fists. Dean stretches him distractedly, his heart and his dick jumping when Cas demands again,

"More."

Dean hesitates, three fingers poised at Cas' entrance. Cas presses back against his hesitating hand, shooting him a dangerously challenging look. Dean begins to push in, but he finds the going difficult, Cas is so tight, and the angel hisses at the intrusion.

Dean takes personal pride and pleasure in roughing him up, but not like this.

He withdraws his fingers slowly and reaches off the bed for what he less than stealthily hid there a few days earlier. Cas groans in frustration, face pressed into the mattress, hips rubbing into the sheets. Dean leaves a kiss at the base of his spine, and a nip that's sharp enough to make the angel jerk, just to tell him to shut up and stop being so impatient. Cas shoots him a dangerous look, but then he can see Dean's slicking his fingers with lube and he relaxes, his body going shuddery with anticipation.

Dean slicks up his fingers and Castiel's hole and presses three fingers in, drawing a bit-back groan from the angel. Dean cusses at how tight he is, even around just his fingers. Pumping in and out, Cas starts to move with him with what little movement he can muster in the position with Dean mostly lying on top of him.

Cas' heart is thundering, every press in borders between being too much, and just not enough. He can feel Dean's fingers inside of him and he feels... special. Dean's taking his time with him. It feels amazing, but not quite _enough_ - he needs more. Something more that he doesn't even know how to ask for. Just... _more_.

He reaches back and grabs Dean's arm with an unforgiving grip, demanding more, faster, harder, _something_. And Dean answers, reaching deeper, curling his fingers, and Cas feels like the breath is punched out of him. A sound erupts from him that he has no control over and everything in him tightens and twitches for a split second. It's like nothing he's ever felt, and he wants it again.

But Dean, the damnable bastard, he keeps it from him. He presses in hard and fast, never quite reaching that place, and Cas knows he's doing it on purpose. He tries to move, to get more leverage, but Dean puts a stop to it, flattening his other hand at the base of Cas' spine.

Dean teases him, nipping at his shoulders, licking at the valley of his spine and pushing in and in over and over until Cas knows, for sure, that the man wants him to beg. He wants him to ask for it, to need him so much that he is useless in his own defense.

"More," Cas demands again, roughly, his voice broken and low. His expression is something that, when they first met, would have had Dean cowering.

Now Dean leans up to nip at the shell of his ear, pressing in once very hard.

Cas' whines and he's shocked at himself for the sound, but the feeling is eclipsed by the fury he feels when Dean chuckles, pulling his fingers away until they are only pressing into him shallow and slow, stretching almost lazily.

Cas growls, a demanding, threatening sound. But Dean's only response is to grip Castiel's hair tightly, pulling roughly.

He wants him to submit.

Cas may be the one about to take it up the rear, but somehow, he's still in charge. Somehow, he's still the demanding one. And Castiel knows Dean wants him to give up the fight, for his want of him. But he refuses to make it so easy. He uses his strength to push back, forcing Dean's fingers to slip in further, and he groans. Dean holds still, just watching him, fixated on watching him fuck himself onto his fingers. But when he sees Cas' hands fist in the sheets and his forehead fall down to press against the mattress as he groans at the steady rhythm he's found, Dean snaps out of it. He pulls his fingers away, biting at Cas' shoulder when he growls in frustration.

Cas rocks his hips into the mattress, desperately in need of some stimulation, but Dean grabs his hip with a punishing grip to demand that he stop, and he can hear Cas hiss at the bruising hold, but ultimately, and with a degree of growling frustration, he stops.

Cas demands to be touched, but Dean withholds from him, if only to show him who is in charge. And Cas seems to understand then - it all clicks into place. And he forces himself to relax into the mattress, letting out a deep, tense breath and letting his white-knuckles loosen their grip. Dean can see the muscles in his back start to loosen up and he leans over him, kissing up the back of his neck and over his jaw to his lips.

Castiel is finally, _finally_, giving up control. And Dean is there, to take the reins. Now that he has, it feels good - to know he's in Dean's hands. Now that he's done fighting it, he realizes how good it feels. He _wants_ Dean to have him. Completely. He always has.

He spreads his legs a little further, beneath Dean, so that the man can feel his submission and rest fully between them. Dean feels a surge of something like gratitude. For Castiel, subjugation to a mere mortal man is difficult, previously unthinkable. All of that is changed, only for Dean.

Dean rewards him handsomely, pressing his fingers in to touch that place that makes the angel writhe. He touches slowly, but strongly, until Cas is panting and can't help but let out little airy sounds that make Dean have to bite his lip to keep himself together.

Dean uses his grip on Cas' hips to lift his ass up until Cas' is on spread knees, face and chest still pressed into the mattress. Dean smoothes his hands over Cas' cheeks, just looking at him.

Cas pushes himself up onto strong but trembling arms. Dean sees their trembling and reaches to touch, runs a hand over Cas' arm, smoothing over shaking muscle, just out of instinct. When his fingers reach Cas' shoulder, the angel turns his head to give his knuckles a little bite, more like a nibble. It is affectionate more than anything. Dean touches his lips with his thumb, and he feels Cas's parted lips press there.

It's as much of a _yes_ as he needs.

Dean slicks himself up and moves up behind Castiel kneeling, poised so close to his body, taking a moment to gather his breath before he touches himself to Castiel's entrance, just lightly.

He can see the angel's muscles twitch. He can see his knuckles white against the sheets.

With a hand on Cas' hip and the other at the base of his own cock, he presses forward and pushes, jaw straining open, and the sound he lets out as he's swallowed the first inch by that tight ring of muscle is so desperate and pathetic, he's sure it probably sounds like he's dying. It kind of feels like he's dying - this, this push and give and the hot swallow of the creature in front of him is the end of everything. It has to be.

He forces his eyes open to look down at Cas, seeing his ribcage expanding with each frantic, heavy breath. Dean watches, his jaw flexing open, as he pushes in to the hilt, watching himself disappear inside of him, feeling Cas swallow him, all of him, hot and needy. His body takes him like it wants him, and they fit so good together.

Cas' genius-like, multi-dimension reading, superhuman brain completely whites out. There is only this one thing, this one sharp focus - Dean. He isn't sure if the image of the sheets just doesn't register or if his eyes are squeezed closed but he sees nothing; all of his senses, all of his energy poured into this feeling of Dean, close behind him, one hand tight on his hip, as the impossibly hard length of him pushes into his body. It is overwhelming, but right. He feels the sear of pain and pleasure, like the first time they were fused together - an impossible-to-differentiate amalgamation of the two of them, so that it is torture, but he _wants_ it. He loves it.

He feels _owned_ by Dean.

Cas' back arches and Dean can hear his breath stutter; he runs his palm up and down the valley of his back, smoothing over his skin. He runs his hand up to Cas hair, smoothing over it, running his fingers through, and then giving a gentle tug.

Castiel looks back over his shoulder as prompted and the sight makes him groan anew and drop his head back down - Dean kneeling tall, flush up against him, cheeks and chest flushed, the lightest sheen of perspiration over his body.

Dean had just wanted to see his face, his eyes, make sure he was ok. He can feel as much, but he wanted to _see_ it. And Cas looks gone - his face is so pink, his hair wild, and those eyes... those blue eyes, hazy and heavy-lidded. Dean runs his hands up and down Cas' sides, feeling his muscles twitch, _all of his muscles_, and the fluttering clamp makes him _hmm_ and sigh.

"Dean..." Cas begs like broken gravel, and it is perfect.

Dean smiles - Cas is at his mercy. But unlike their games in the woods, Dean doesn't hold off, he doesn't keep Cas' satisfaction just out of reach, or push in hard to give him a little too much of what he's asking for. Instead he drops down, leaving a kiss at Cas' spine before moving, smoothly and carefully.

Dean starts a slow slide, out and back, filling him slowly again and again. He gives him, willingly, exactly what he wants, with no playing at dominance or withholding. He just gives. And that's what he wants Cas to feel, that he will give him anything when he needs it.

Granted, he hasn't lost his spice or thrill for their tit for tat fighting, and he's sure that will come back in time too. He knows that when they do this more, when the know each other like this completely, he knows he will shove mercilessly into Cas and pull his hair tight, bowing his back and exposing his throat and it will be fucking ridiculous in its rough perfection. But that's for a later day. For now, he just wants to feel Cas, and he wants Cas to feel him. He wants to show him what he has to offer - no games and no bruises.

For now, just the easy slide.

The feeling of it has Cas beyond thought, beyond words - no one's ever had him, not like this. His brain, magnificent thing though it is, struggles to do more than register the feeling of Dean sliding into him, pressing in so tight, so full. It is amazing, and Castiel never wants it to stop.

He wants more.

They meet a slow, even rhythm and when Dean hits that something inside him that makes him seize up, Cas can't help the thankful sound he makes every time. Dean doesn't tease him, like earlier. He gives him exactly what he needs.

Suddenly Cas picks himself up off the mattress until he is upright and he is sinking back against Dean with a shudder, Dean pressed snugly up against his back. A helpless, shaking groan erupts from the angel's mouth, Dean bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut and only letting a little groan escape. He winds his arms around Cas' body tightly, holding him close. Cas leans back into the touch, tipping his head back against Dean's shoulder and groaning long and loud at the constant overwhelming _press_ of Dean inside him. Now Dean can see his face, nip and kiss at his neck and jaw, until Castiel gets his awareness about him enough to turn his head a little and give Dean access to his lips. Then Dean is in his mouth too, and Castiel feels like he's full of him, like they couldn't be any closer, and it is perfect. This is it. When he looked at Dean in Purgatory and wanted the man to defeat him, wanted to be owned by him, but couldn't wrap his mind around how it could be done - _this_ is how it's done. He whimpers, shifting restlessly against him.

All Dean can think, is how much he loves this - it's exactly how it should be - Cas in his lap where he can hold him and be close to him and fill him up.

Their movements start again shallow and slow, Dean's hands gripping tight at Cas' hips as he guides him, he doesn't want to hurt him. Cas does wince, but he also presses down to meet him. And it doesn't take them long to find a deeper, faster rhythm that's got Castiel tossing his head back and tipping it forward again and again, and Dean's knuckles whiting-out against Cas' hips, and thighs, and shoulders, and everywhere else he can hold him.

Dean reaches down and takes Cas in his hand, and that's it - it's all the angel can take. He pushes himself down onto Dean harder, rhythm stuttering and body shaking and he growls almost as if he fighting Dean, not fucking him. And he feels so good, that Dean starts to loose it.

"Fuck, _Cas_..." he bites against his shoulder.

When Castiel comes with a shout and full-body shudder, Dean can feel the electricity in the room, buzzing and intangible. He can feel the overwhelming bliss whiting-out their bond, sending sparks and jolts through Cas to him. He can feel Cas' pulsing hot and wet in his hand. He knows he is going to come, so he slows down, pulls the boneless dead weight of a tipped-forward Castiel back against him, pulling him down onto him as deep as he will go, and holds him close. So when he can't hold back anymore, and his hips jerk and his limbs tighten automatically around Cas, there isn't a part of him that isn't clutching to the angel.

Cas holds tight onto Dean's arms, which are wrapped around his chest, and closes his eyes to really feel it - Dean coming inside him. Every throbbing pulse of the man pulls and airy sound from the angel.

Dean heaves as he finishes, rocking them both with each breath. He doesn't realize how hard he's shaking until he feels Cas' hands prying his own from their death-grip on his body, so that he can lace their fingers.

Dean lets Cas intertwine their fingers and he holds onto his hands as if the angel is the only thing keeping him together. Because he is.

They take their time coming down from the high, the way they couldn't in Purgatory - naked and slow and brainless. Utterly indulgent. Almost as good as getting to be together, is getting to take the moments after to really appreciate it. Castiel simply rests back against him, his head tipped back against Dean's shoulder, and breathes, feeling every little twitch of post-pleasure spark through his body. Dean just holds him. His eyes closed as he breathes against Cas' shoulder, lulled and spent to the point that he isn't sure he could move if he wanted to. It doesn't escape him that _this_ is everything that was missing.

There was a time, when Dean was scared and alone and hurting so bad, and he looked on Purgatory as the best his life could be. Now he knows, _this_ is the best it can be. Safe and together, back in the world, ridiculously naked and in a bed, where they can feel non-threatened and _human_.

After awhile Dean's thighs start to ache, so he maneuvers them back onto the mattress, properly. They lie back, and they smile, simple and honest and extremely pleased with themselves. They look at each other, panting, faces flushed, and then, they both smirk. They feel light, so impossibly light. Their quiet scattered laughter is all they can muster in the way of words.


	31. Chapter 31

_This is literally a chapter of graphic sex._

_Enjoy._

* * *

Chapter Thirty One

The room is stuffy and warm and it smells like them. Dean loves it. It's his and Cas' own little hot-box. Their own sweaty, safe, Purgatory recreation. He feels free and young and closer to Cas than anyone. He's had plenty of good post-sex moments, but this tops them all. Naked Castiel, angel of the Lord, victor of Purgatory, lounging boneless and utterly debauched beside him is enough to shoot this moment to number one. Dean can't help but smile, as he runs his eyes over him. Naked and completely careless of the fact, Cas is stretched out on the bed, long pale limbs, smooth plains of skin and hard muscle, eyes closed, cheeks and chest still pink despite the fact that his breath has evened and their sweat has cooled. Dean's eyes trace the lines of his body, including the line of dark hair that leads from his navel, to the springy black hair at the base of the thing he would once never have admitted to liking.

Cas' face is passive and calm, and Dean realizes, as he does every once in awhile, how fucking beautiful he is. For a man, Cas really is pretty. Masculine, but pretty.

Castiel's brow furrows and his head turns toward Dean, giving him a hard look.

Dean shrugs, turning away shyly, smile still in place. Cas may resent being called _pretty_, but it doesn't make it untrue.

Cas takes a deep breath, letting out a contented sigh, eyes closed, and runs a lazy hand down the center of Dean's chest and abdomen - touching just because. Dean smirks and sighs himself. In his mind he thinks about all the times he'd been without Cas, and what sweet, perfect relief this moment is from that overwhelming fear that he'd never have him again.

Cas' hand stills against Dean's skin.

Dean instantly feels the tension in the angel. He turns on his side to look at him, seeing his eyes are open, but turned away, brow furrowed.

Dean unconsciously furrows his brow down to match. "What?" he asks, his voice coming out softer than he meant.

Cas swallows, and stays quiet for a long time. When he finally looks at Dean, it's like his eyes are searching the man, memorizing him. Looking into his eyes he tells him, "I heard you praying to me."

Dean's lips part, but there isn't anything to say.

"I couldn't get to you," Cas admits sadly.

And Dean can see the fear echoing in his eyes, at knowing he was needed but couldn't get there. Trapped in Purgatory while Dean was trapped on earth, begging for him. Dean leans forward and kisses him and doesn't have to say out loud what he's thinking.

_You're here now._

The kiss is uncommonly soft for them, just a light press of lips. But it feels good. And from the way he can feel Cas' taut muscles start to soften, Dean can tell that he needs it.

But it doesn't stay soft and innocent for long. Before Dean can slowly coax Castiel's lips open the angel steals his lead, pressing insistently at Dean's lips with his tongue, fighting in. His hand tightens around Dean's bicep and his kiss is deep and passionate. Castiel is in a frenzy before Dean has time to work out what happened, but he loves it. The angel presses against him, kissing him like he hasn't had him for months. He settles on top of Dean, hand at the back of his head, gripping the dark blonde hair.

Dean reaches down between them, fingers searching, and touches Castiel, bringing him to hardness almost gently - a juxtaposition to Castiel's almost furious claiming of Dean't mouth. Castiel growls, kissing Dean harder, tongue pressing deeper, and it sends a thrill through Dean. He wraps his hand around him and strokes, playing with him in all the ways he remembers makes the angel crazy. Castiel is rock-hard in no time and Dean smirks proudly into Castiel's assault on his lips.

Suddenly, Dean feels Cas' strong hands wrapping tight in the crease behind his knees, and with no warning Castiel tugs at the backs of his knees, pulling the man abruptly down the mattress so that he lies flat, Castiel between his bent knees. The suddenness of it forces Dean to let out a gasp, looking up at the angel wide-eyed. Cas looks hungry, and as he manhandles Dean, spreading his legs, he leans over him until his face is close to Dean's. Dean can literally feel himself shaking with anticipation. He can feel the tickle of the fine hairs on Cas' thighs brushing against the insides of his own.

Cas kisses him again, wet and deep, running his hands over Dean's thighs, brushing teasingly close to his neglected hardness. He runs his hands smoothly to the undersides of Dean's legs, the backs of his thighs, all the while kissing him. And when his hands skim down to the swell of Dean's ass, and down further to his cleft, Cas' lips slow against Dean's, expecting to meet hesitance or rejection. When Dean simply brings his hands to Castiel's face, holding him and coaxing him to keep kissing, Castiel is surprised, but he doesn't stop. His fingers brush lightly over Dean's puckered entrance, and though he feels a nervous flutter of muscle, Dean never pulls away. Castiel can feel Dean's heartbeat quicken, feel his nerves, but his expression remains soft and wanting, his eyes closed in trust and his trembling hands threading sweetly through Cas' hair.

Castiel pulls from their kiss to look at him.

As much of a challenge as it was for Dean to get Cas to submit, is as easy as it is for Cas to hold dominion over Dean.

The man is trembling as he pulls Cas down to lie between his legs, wrapping strong thighs around him before he can give himself the chance to panic. Dean concentrates on kissing him, feeling the sinew of his back, curves and dips and plains his hands are hungry for.

He's ready anyway. Dean is ready to let Cas have him, he's ready to not fight him. It's terrifying, but he wants it and he wants Cas to see that.

And the angel does. Dean gives so freely, so easily, despite a lifetime of fighting and hiding and refusing to submit, and Castiel is in awe of Dean in this moment.

Cas pulls away from his lips to search his eyes. Dean is giving in so much easier than he expected, and he finds that his chest feels tight for it. Dean is so much softer, more vulnerable now, and Cas has never appreciated or respected him more. It takes real strength to _give up_ the fight.

They both know that in terms of their games of dominance, Dean's taking a big hit here with his wide-eyed, trembling willingness... but it doesn't matter anymore. Cas doesn't judge him, doesn't think him weak for giving in. He wonders if maybe it makes Dean the stronger of them, that he's so trusting of him. Cas doesn't see it as weakness, but is honored, and even more in love with him for it.

And he's gonna make this damn fucking good for him.

Castiel prepares him efficiently and spectacularly, fingers slick and searching while his lips and tongue and mouth drive Dean to grunted cusses. Dean's fingers tighten in Cas' hair a the angel hollows out his cheeks, taking Dean's burning-hard length into his mouth to the root, keeping his eyes locked on Dean's and utterly distracting him from the third finger slipping in beside the others.

When Dean's hips meets a steady rhythm, and his voice is a breathy, steady flow of cusses, Castiel pulls off of him, leaving one last touch of his tongue up the length of his cock, before leaning up and kissing Dean's mouth. The man's lips are lazy and open, inattentive thanks to Castiel's fingers inside of him. Castiel licks at Dean's lip, pulling away to look down at his face and searches inside of him, stroking against his walls until he finds it - Dean's face screws up and he tightens around Cas' fingers.

It's intoxicating for the angel. Seeing what he can do to this man (this man who tore through Purgatory, killed Leviathans, didn't make a sound for years); with a well-placed stroke of his fingers he can make him whimper. Castiel finds it intoxicating, this control he has - the brand new ability to do this to Dean. The man is writhing, mouth open.

Cas can feel Dean's whole body start to shake, and it doesn't even occur to him to stop.

"Oh fuck - stop, stop," Dean begs, all rasp. Castiel stops, looking concerned, until Dean's lust-blown eyes land on him and the man says, "I don't wanna come until you're in me."

There is a determined plea in his eye that makes Castiel groan, his dick jumps and he has to bite his own lip to contain himself. But then his eyes snap to Dean's and the feral look of him has Dean's heart stuttering in his chest. Dean thinks, for a moment, that he may be out of his depth here. That he might have worked Cas up a little too much. Cas smirks at Dean's adorable trepidation, but doesn't pause in his mission; Cas carefully withdraws his fingers and slicks himself up. He comes forward, lining himself up with Dean, despite the man's trembling and wide, watching eyes, and rubs against him adding a little more pressure every time, until he is pushing in, breaching that tight ring of muscle.

Dean goes stiff and taut, eyes squeezed shut, hands fisted in the sheets. "Oh shit," he grunts out. His jaw is clenched and his face is rough and determined, as though it is a torture he is forcing himself to get through.

Castiel grabs his jaw, Dean's eyes flashing open, and kisses him roughly, before pulling away and leaving his thumb to rub small soothing circles at the hinge of his jaw. He can feel Dean relaxing against him, remembering that Cas won't hurt him. He won't. Dean just has to remember to be sure of it. He lets out a long breath, pulling Cas down by the hair at the back of his head for another kiss.

Cas, having been given permission, starts to rock his hips, ever so slightly, so at first he's only barely moving; just slightly pulling out to sink back in that barely an inch until he knows Dean can take more. The motion of his body is constant. Every time he moves he works himself in a little farther, until he is inside of Dean far enough to sink in til their bodies are flush. Cas' forehead drops to Dean's, eyes drifting closed, a quiet moan escaping him. Dean's chest rises and falls quickly, his eyes staying open as he looks up at the angel above him, his hands coming hot and damp to Castiel's back and shoulders. He's keeping it together, but he feels stretched full, it doesn't hurt but Cas just feels like so much, he feels like he might rip open... he's scared despite himself.

Castiel feels it and opens his eyes, looking at Dean and taking in the sight of him, completely at his mercy. He wouldn't betray that for anything. Not for the world. He kisses him easily, calmingly. Feeling Dean's body twitch against him when he begins to slide out. He presses his tongue into Dean's mouth, rubbing his thumb along the man's jaw, his other hand going smoothly down to hold at Dean's hip. As he presses back into the man, he remembers exactly where to aim - he uses speed and accuracy, despite Dean's palpable jolt of fear at the feeling of Cas revving up to pound into him, to extinguish Dean's trepidation immediately. As soon as he slams in home, Dean arches against him, his arms going tight around Cas' shoulders and his jaw straining open.

"Oh g-god..." Dean scratches out, clutching Cas as he sinks in again and again, never failing to drag against that place inside Dean that has him bodily jolting beyond his control.

Cas feels, in that moment that Dean first tightens around him, the man's eyes rolling back, that he was made for this. He was _made_, to bring Dean to pleasure.

For Dean, it's too much too fast - Cas is merciless. He is, just as Dean teased, a machine. He never lets up, even when Dean begs, because Cas _knows_ that Dean isn't hurting, but overwhelmed. And he isn't about to let the man dull his experience simply because he is afraid of it, of how _much_ he feels.

The rhythm he sets is torture - deep and exact and unforgiving, not slow, but not fucking fast enough. Dean is losing his goddamned mind. His hands are scrambling, he doesn't know what to hold on to, what to touch next, his mind is scattered. He feels like he's losing it. Castiel can feel it, the way Dean's struggling, every nerve exposed and braincell frayed. Dean's chest is heaving, his muscles tightening and shaking as though he is about to spin apart. So Castiel leans forward and captures Dean's wrists in his hands, pinning them to the bed, and even then, the angel's hips never falter. Dean looks up at Cas - the flush on his pale skin; determined, owning look in his blue eye - and he groans. He lets his shaking legs fall open wider and Cas sinks even deeper, bottoming out, smirking when Dean arches against his hold. He knows Dean likes this, likes being held down - but only by him.

And it's good, it's so good, to be holding him down, forcing pleasure on him. But it can't last, at least not this time. Cas finally has to let go of Dean's wrists when the need to touch him is too great. He leans down and kisses Dean hard and demanding and Dean whimpers as he takes it all. Cas' hand comes to his thigh, gripping tight, pushing higher, the change of angle punching a low moan from Dean's chest. Dean's hands fly down, reaching desperately for a part of Cas to hold onto and landing on his ass. He grabs tight, Cas groaning in his ear, and pushes, pulls the angel in closer, deeper.

Castiel picks up speed and Dean knows he's losing it. "Cas," he squeaks out, desperately. He isn't even sure what he's asking for.

Castiel jumps to take care of him, nuzzling his face to Dean's in blatant affection, brushing his lips against the man's as he fucks into him faster, harder. Dean moans, in long, drawn-out, closed-jawed breaths for being on the edge of something. It sounds desperate, and Cas quivers with how much he loves it. Dean is shaking, clutching him hard, his eyes and jaw clenched shut, his body bowing and writhing, his face red - he's almost there, it's too much and he's almost there.

"Look at me," Cas suddenly demands.

Dean makes a choked-off sound, struggling to open his eyes. When he does his whole body seizes because Cas is flushed and poised at the edge and looking at him with so much fire, so much animal possession on his beautiful face, in those blue eyes... Cas looks into Dean's eyes, refusing to break the gaze, and reaches down to where Dean in throbbing between them and wraps his hand around, squeezing. He strokes him, swiping his thumb over the too-sensitive head and Dean's eyes go wide before squeezing shut - his whole body jerks, every muscle tightening, head thrown back.

Castiel watches, feels Dean lose control beneath him, sees him twist and buckle and jerk like never before. He feels Dean's come splash up against his chest. Dean's hands pull Cas into him closer, his legs caging his hips tighter.

It's beautiful. He, is beautiful. And Castiel has done this to him.

He did this - this look on Dean's face, the way he's coming so hard his whole body strains, it's all Castiel's. It's for him.

Castiel feels the rumble start from the base of his spine, roiling up his body, shaking in his gut - he reaches down and slides a hand beneath Dean's head, gripping the back of his neck carefully. All he can think is that this man is _his_. All he knows is that he could never own someone else the way he has Dean, and that Dean will never find someone else to do this to him like he has. Dean feels so good, tightening and trembling around him. As Castiel's whole body draws up and goes taut, he gasps a gravelly sound that has Dean's eyes laser-focused on him; he feels Dean staring, watching so carefully, and when he opens his eyes and sees that green-eyed, freckled, utterly wrecked righteous son of a bitch ... he comes so hard that the erratic force of his hips jerks them both up the bed, and an airy sound that can only be a sob breaks out of him.

He feels Dean's arms wrapping tight around him, feels himself spilling inside of him until there's nothing left and he collapses.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, _collapses_ into a shaking, whimpering heap.

Dean could do nothing but watch as Castiel came, his face screwed up with pleasure and a so long awaited release. Cas looks heartbroken and thankful and so fucking good... Dean can feel it, inside of him, and he can do nothing but watch and try to feel it as much as he can. It is amazing... and he is in awe. It feels like nothing else ever has, like nothing else ever will. In this moment, Cas _belongs_ to him.

Cas collapses onto his chest, trembling and pleasurably heavy. Dean exhales.

Everything is quiet.

The world may as well be gone, because all there is, is the two of them, and the sound of breathing and beating hearts. It seems so peaceful and content after the riot of their union that Dean tips his head up off the pillow to look at Cas, if just to make sure he is alive. He sees the mess of black hair resting against his chest, he sees where Castiel's hand has fallen limp against his bicep. He feels the angel's breath against his skin, and feels him softening inside him. Castiel shifts minutely and Dean feels his stubble scratch against his chest; he hums contentedly.

He doesn't think he's ever come so hard in his life. He's certainly never felt so exposed, so _known_ by another person.

Castiel has to close his jaw tight, close his eyes tight, because the shaking realness of what he's just done, to this man who he's loved for... God, maybe forever, is too much. He lays on top of him, thanking God, thanking Dean, just silently _thanking_.

They stay like that a long time, as good as catatonic. It kind of makes Dean want to laugh. He thinks about the idea of having fucked themselves to death, how disturbed Sam would be to find them like this, and how unsurprised he might be to discover C.O.D. was too much mind-blowing sex. He thinks about how he hasn't felt this good in...

A vague recollection of misspent youth comes to mind, when he was all freckles and pick-up lines and frivolous debauchery. But that wasn't really honest. It was fun, and it felt good in a shallow, physical kind of way. But it was nowhere near as satisfying as this. Oh, the things he could tell his young self now... He thinks, a smirk spreading slowly over his lips, that he's never been so sated; never so completely satisfied, in every way. Sam was always the sincere, _It's better when you're in love_ kinda guy. Dean was always the _sex is sex and it's never not good_ kinda guy. But now he knows his poor, sentimental brother had it right.

He feels Cas sigh, he can practically feel him rolling his eyes at him for thinking about his brother while they're in bed. Dean smirks and smacks Castiel lightly on the head.

Cas makes a displeased grunt and presses blunt teeth to the area below Dean's pectoral.

Cas ventures to move, finally, sliding off of Dean like a big, warm sloth. Dean hisses when Cas finally pulls out all the way and Cas presses a hand to Dean's abdomen comfortingly. He's laying on his stomach, his chest propped up on pillows with his face turned toward Dean to watch him, one arm and leg still strewn over Dean's. So Castiel can see, plain as day, when Dean's face screws up, though he tries to hide it, and his legs pull together. At first Cas is afraid he might have hurt him; he sits up and brings his hands to Dean's thighs, trying to part them, but Dean stubbornly resists, refusing to look him in the eye. But Castiel is stronger and they both know it, and Dean's thighs are still trembling from exertion. When Castiel finally spreads Dean's thighs, he smiles.

Dean isn't hurt. Dean is embarrassed. Because he can feel evidence of Cas' lengthy climax slipping out of him. He tries to hide, attempting to close his legs again. But Cas won't let him. He looks Dean over with fascination, smiling as he feels the man grimace at the scrutiny. As if they could hope to hide anything from one another now. But Dean is uncomfortable with the feeling, the exposure, so Cas slides up the length of his body and kisses him until he can't think, and fingers him where he is loose and slick until Dean is biting his lip, wincing from his exhausted cock's valiant attempt to get ready to come again. He's begging, but even he isn't sure if it's for Cas to stop, or for him to please god keep going.

There is _nothing_, about which Dean should be ashamed in front of Cas. The angel makes that abundantly clear. There is nothing about the two of them together, which Cas does not learn to love or appreciate.

No hiding. No secrets. No masks. Ever again.

* * *

The day has rolled into night, and back into morning again. And Dean and Cas have not so much slept, as spent the hours in bed. They roll and touch and taste and break over and over until it's all either of them can remember. Neither of them can make sense anymore of so much time spent apart, not having this.

...

Castiel is sneaky, making Dean come before he's ready. Forcing it out of him with so much skill and mischievous pleasure at making Dean come undone so quickly, like a clumsy teenager. Dean warns him he's too close, tells him to stop, but Cas merely smirks and works harder. The angel chuckles at the surprised expression Dean makes when he can't hold back. He likes that he can throw Dean off his game, make him embarrass himself, he wants it so bad.

But he was crazy to think his dominant smirk of victory would last...

Dean repays in full. That's how he rolls. His own cock may be soft and spent, brushing practically innocently against the fabric of the sheets, but the rest of Dean is still on board, and he doesn't strictly need that piece of equipment to take Cas apart. So if Cas thinks he's won this round, he's counted Dean out too early.

Dean dips his tongue into the crease of Cas' hipbone, smirking up at the angel as he crooks his fingers just right, and finds what he was looking for.

Castiel arches, panting, "Oh, G-god - forgive me..." He doesn't just say it - it breaks out of him.

Dean smirks. He's totally gonna win this one.

...

Dean breathes lightly.

He watches as he skims his fingers, feather-light, over Castiel's forearm, feeling the baby-fine hair and smooth skin beneath the tips of his fingers. He glances up to see Castiel smiling, and lets out a singular, quiet laugh.

...

Castiel likes this, lying on their sides, face to face. It's reminiscent of less comfortable but equally as intimate times, hiding together in their dirt hovels. Dean's eyelashes always looked so pretty while he slept, the dainty brunette accents fanned delicately across the tops of his cheeks. Of course, Dean isn't sleeping now. Castiel can tell. But he doesn't mind, he intends to stare all the same. And Dean can frown in pretend displeasure at the attention all he wants, Castiel will run the pads of his fingers, soft and dry, over the bridge of his nose all he damn well pleases, touching the artful spatter of orange freckles.

...

Dean hooks his arms under Castiel's, looping them behind his shoulders, with his hands holding the tops of Castiel's shoulders and uses the angle to latch the angel to him.

Castiel chuckles lowly at his inability to pull away, and Dean smiles into his neck. Castiel kisses the scar on Dean's shoulder, from their first night in Purgatory, and Dean just holds onto him. He likes that he can cling to him, without feeling weak.

Dean can hold Castiel too tight, because he can feel in that slender frame that he is strong, so strong, and he can take it.

...

Castiel runs his fingers down the valley of Dean's spine. He loves the dip of it, the curve in he middle of that strong, flat plain. He remembers remaking Dean, finding him in Hell... how twisted and mangled and broken this beautiful piece of him was. And Castiel is all at once overwhelmingly thankful for having found him, having been afforded the power to put it right. Because nothing feels so soothing, as running his fingers down that smooth valley, and feeling Dean's body expand against him as he draws a breath.

He is the epitome of _life_.

Dean feels Castiel's reminiscing and draws a deep breath, offering the angel what he loves, transferring to him the knowledge that he is thankful too. And that nothing is so soothing, as the feeling of the angel's fingertips trailing warm and soft down his back.

...

The smell of Cas' skin nearly lulls Dean into an enchanted sleep. There's something soft about him, about the scent that is uniquely his. He doubts if other angels have a smell, or if in the very least it is as unidentifiably sweet and unexpectedly earthy as Cas'. He is hard on the outside, he's got edges and heavy history and the undeniable programming of a warrior of Heaven. But there's something sweet about the scent of his skin, almost too faint to acknowledge - but Dean knows it's there. Dean, and no one else. And it's innocent and soft and indicative of the angel's deepest desire to be loved, to be known. The very cells that make him up are designed to entice Dean.

* * *

Sam doesn't come back at all that day, and Dean and Cas do everything they can think of to make the most of the time until they are both wincing-sore and exhausted beyond giddiness to utter flush-cheeked stupidity.

It occurs to them both, when they are lying on the floor on a sheet from their irreparably destroyed bed, that they probably didn't have to rush into this as thoroughly as they did, as though they had to do it as much as they could _right now_ because they might run out of time.

Their bodies are bruised and sore. They've done too much too fast.

But they don't regret it.

And it's nice to lay there, completely debauched and useless, and know that the world isn't crashing down around them just because they _finally_ got what they want.

What they have now is more than animal need, more than a challenge, more than a heady desire, and more than a result of their unusual melding of lifesources. It's about their bone-deep fondness for each other. Love. And their love isn't only about outright affection, but about the freedom to be animal. Wild killers, like wolves, without need of speech - just body language. One would be alpha, the other forced to submit, but loving it, finding honor in it. And they gave each other the freedom to either enforce their will onto the other, or submit. Simplicity. A truer more base existence, and a more honest version of themselves. No hesitation. No society, no laws, no rules, no judgements - just do.

Pure abandon - do what you want, because you want it.

In the world Dean is broken. Out of place. Odd and damaged and unsure. But in bed with Castiel, he is unstoppable. He is strong, mighty. He is king and he is big and invincible, and there is no doubt about it. He is focused and sure and confident and he takes Castiel apart so completely that the almighty angel of God is left trembling and gasping for air. When Dean is inside Castiel, he is in charge; and when they are fucking, he is invincible. He is solid and fun again, and powerful.

And when he lets Cas have him, he's certain, not weak. He is giving himself, not being taken.

Everything goes without saying between them - _of course I would die for you. Of course you can take what you want. Of course I love you._ It's out in the real world where things start to get fuzzy and confusing and questionable. But when it's just the two of them, everything is instinct, and their instincts make sense. They can be rough, if they want. But more importantly, they can be _soft_ if they want.

They regain that feeling, like they are the only ones alive, the only two men left in the world. And it is ideal.

* * *

After their first day being truly and completely together, they both start to notice that over the days Castiel is changing. It's subtle, but Dean can tell. He isn't a full angel anymore. But, he's not a human either. And Dean feels it. Castiel doesn't return to heaven, but maintains the ability to move himself through space as though teleporting. He still has a bit of healing power, though it is limited, and he does seem confident that said power will not leave him completely. Castiel isn't made of steel anymore. Still strong, still fast, but not invincible. He gets hot and cold, hungry and tired. But he still isn't human. They never talk about it, but they both know what it means.

Castiel is adapting to his new permanent environment.

He will never be a man. Never mortal, in the human sense. But he is no longer Host of Heaven. Finally, he is free of that burden.

There is no explanation necessary for the change. They both know what it means.

It means Cas isn't leaving.

* * *

_Ok so, I'll just come out and say it - __So sorry that took so epically long for me to update these coupla chapters you guys! I wanted to get the sex right._

_Pfft, weird..._

_But also, I wanted to put things right between Sam and Cas, and Sam and Dean, before Dean and Cas finally got it together. I thought that was important. (Talk about a triangle, sigh, these boys and their feelings...) So yeah, it took awhile to untangle it all. But I hope you like where they're ending up._

_And as I said, real world = very weird. And very busy._

_Thanks for reviews. They are much appreciated. _

_One more chapter..._


End file.
